


Mercury Dime

by Tyranno



Series: but I wore his jacket for the longest time. [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Adam Parrish is kind of mean, Adam Parrish-centric, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Barrington whelk slips on a banana peel and dies offscreen so he's not in this one, Book 1: The Raven Boys, Enemies to Lovers, Gangsey as family, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Joseph Kavinsky is His Own Warning, Joseph Kavinsky-centric, M/M, Secret Relationship, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Unhealthy Relationships, in your arms I am a wild creature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22680319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: “What the fuck do you want, Kavinsky?” Ronan asked.“Nothing from you,” Kavinsky slapped the top of the Camaro, “I wanted to talk to my squeeze.”Adam straightened up, “Later, Kavinsky.”“Adam has a girlfriend,” Gansey said, sharply.“Oh my,” Kavinsky leaned through the window, “You told them I was the girl in the relationship?”Adam could have strangled him. This wasn’t how he’d wanted everyone to find out.
Relationships: Joseph Kavinsky/Adam Parrish
Series: but I wore his jacket for the longest time. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646647
Comments: 153
Kudos: 236





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw in end notes

> “Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.”

— Fyodor Dostoevsky, _Crime and Punishment_

* * *

The bell above the door rang gently as someone pushed the door open.

It had been a long, lonely grey afternoon—the kind Adam liked. It meant that he had time to complete all of his homework on his lap at the front desk, finish all of the admin he’d been assigned, and double check all of the books for the next day of appointments. Too many of those afternoons meant Boyd would start to worry, but one of them once in a while was enough like a holiday that Adam appreciated it.

The customer slouched through the racks of automotive parts, his gait unsteady and his head low. He looked drunk. Adam regarded him warily, already measuring up whether the boy was bigger than him or not. He quickly concluded that if the customer was so far gone to stagger like that, it wouldn’t be much of a fight.

“We’re closed,” Adam said, “I’m sorry, you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

“Fuck off,” The customer reached the front desk and slapped a hand on the edge, leaning hard. He was wearing a glossy black jacket zipped completely up and slick, designer jeans. Despite his state, his voice was clear.

Adam glanced at the cash register on the other end of the counter. It was locked, like he always left it, and the key was in his back pocket. He returned his eyes to the customer. Adam recognised him vaguely as an Aglionby boy—which one he didn’t recall—but it was enough to irritate him.

“Fucking Wallmart’s closed, fucking shitty pharmacy’s shut,” Customer said, his voice sharp and hard, “Fuck _you_ you’re closed. You’re here, you can give me a—”

“Sir, we’ll be open again tomorrow,” Adam said, sourly.

Customer lifted his head, dark eyes catching Adam. They were red-rimmed and slightly puffy, twitching slightly. Adam frowned and took a closer look. The boy clutched his side with one finely tanned hand, his other gripped the counter white-knuckle. One of the boy’s legs was slightly raised, a wounded gesture that reminded Adam starkly of a disease-ridden dog that used to linger in the trailer park.

Blood ran down the gap of flesh between the dark designer jeans and the top of his black trainers. Adam eyed the smudgy red-brown marks Customer had left in his footprints.

“Exactly, dick for brains,” Customer growled, apparently reading Adam’s thoughts, “I ain’t fucking around. Now, I want some fucking bandages.”

“Bandages?” Adam echoed.

Customer hissed, “Do I gotta—”

“Alright, a’ght,” Adam snapped, “I’ve got something you can use. Stop cursing at me.”

“You show me some fucking bandages and then we’ll talk,” Customer snarled back.

Adam snatched the wrist that the Customer was supporting his weight on. A part of him liked seeing the rich prick stumble as Adam dragged him into the back room. He released him to flick on the lights, and Customer staggered, his hip catching on the break room table, before he hit a wall and slid down it.

“So rough with me, baby,” Customer said, apparently much happier.

Adam ignored him. He unearthed his old, second-hand suitcase from where he’d hidden it in the mounds of half-used polish and uncommon car parts. He brushed the worst of the dust before dragging it to where the Customer sat, crumpled on the floor.

“I’m guessing there’s a reason you can’t go to the hospital,” Adam said.

“Naw, not really,” Customer said, running a tongue over his teeth, “I just wanted to be patched up by a nobody.”

Adam unzipped the suitcase and flipped it open. He pawed through piles of very old clothing, until he pulled out a thick wad of bandages and a small sewing kit.

“There a reason you have a hidden travel bag filled with a pharmacy?” Customer asked.

Adam pushed the suitcase out of the way, “I’m planning for the apocalypse.”

Customer grinned, teeth white and pointed. Already, there was a small dotting of blood on the break room floor, running from the silky ends of his jacket.

“I’m gonna unzip you,” Adam said, reaching up for the zip that hung just under Customer’s chin.

Customer turned his head, “Oh, you—”

“Shut up,” Adam said. Customer shut up. Adam unzipped him.

Blood bloomed over the side of Customer’s belly, just above his hipbone. It wasn’t large—about the size of Adam’s fist—and it wasn’t even, but it was bleeding steadily, soaking through Customer’s white tank top. Adam lifted the corner of the top.

Customer’s hand wrapped around his wrist, “That’s enough, princess. I’ll do it.”

Adam glared at him, “You asked me for help.”

“I asked for bandages. Not to be pawed at by some fucking grease monkey,” Customer said, and tilted his head up.

The gesture drew Adam’s eyes. He stared.

Customer’s neck was purple and yellow and green. The bruises were raised over his windpipe, puffy and thick. His eyes were red with burst vessels. Adam recognised the butterfly marks across his throat, the nail marks streaked across the underside of his jaw.

“Holy shit,” Adam said, with feeling, “Someone tried to kill you.”

Customer looked venomous, “You’re a fucking sadist. I got these marks from a car accident.”

Adam stared at him, incredulous. He couldn’t stop his eyes from skating over the ugly bruises, the lurid red marks. “You need to take a picture,” Adam heard himself say, “So you can take them to the police.”

Customer lunged at him, snatching the front of Adam’s work shirt, and the next thing Adam knew teeth were in his face, “If you even fucking dare to tell anyone—!”

Adam reacted on instinct, slamming his fist into the nearest part of Customer’s body, which also happened to be the bleeding part. Customer flinched away, all the strength going out of him in a rush.

“Don’t lay your hands on me again,” Adam warned, lowly, smoothing down his crumpled shirt.

Customer only wheezed in response; his skin leeched of colour.

Adam set his jaw and pulled up Customer’s shirt. The other boy flinched when the wet shirt clung to his damaged skin but didn’t complain as Adam pulled it all the way up, so a long expanse of tanned skin was bared. Dark moles speckled Customer’s flat belly.

The wound was an odd, oval shape which reminded Adam of a cookie-cutter. The skin was broken in chunks, a deep, rich red, but white tufts of shirt material was stuck to it, as well as what looked like newspaper. Adam retrieved his water bottle and poured it onto the wound. Somehow—he hated it—he wasn’t surprised at what he uncovered. Teeth marks. A bite, embedded in the of the flank of the boy. A sluggish dribble of blood ran along his skin.

“How long has it been?” Adam asked, quietly.

“What?” Customer asked, raising dark eyebrows.

“I’m asking when the prick bit you,” Adam asked, “How long since it happened?”

Customer was silent for a long moment, a murderous look in his eyes, “Don’t know.”

“That’s helpful,” Adam said, and reached back inside the suitcase. He pulled out a long, thin spray bottle with a pink cap.

“What the fuck is that?” Customer asked.

“Disinfectant,” Adam said, shaking the bottle.

“What’s with the fucking birds?” Customer asked, eyeing a picture of a fluffy rooster was plastered over the front of it.

“It’s for chickens,” Adam said, “It’s a cheaper version. They scratch each other at lot. It’ll work, don’t worry.”

“Christ,” Customer whistled.

“You’re the stubborn guy who didn’t want to go to the hospital,” Adam said, “By the way, this will hurt. A lot.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” Customer said, dryly.

Adam twisted the nozzle and aimed it at the lurid red bite. The spray was a vibrant purple, so it would be visible through the feathers, and covered his flank like spray paint in a colour that was almost luminous. Adam went over it twice.

To his credit, Customer didn’t scream. Instead he tensed, like he was being choked, his body twisting taught. He let out a gasping, gagging noise before his throat tensed closed. When Adam turned away, he sagged harder against the wall, sliding down a little. His breathing was difficult and thin.

“Anything else?” Customer got out, eventually.

Adam waved something soft and white at him, “Your ‘fucking bandages’.”

Customer grinned, crookedly. He stopped grinning when Adam pressed a square of gauze to his injury. Adam made him sit up a little more, so he could wrap the bandages around him. He wrapped them tight, tight, even while Customer squirmed under him.

Finally, he cut the bandages off, and packed his suitcase away, being careful to replace every empty can and old box.

“Well,” Customer said and coughed, “You’re worth every penny, darling.”

“You should get your neck checked out,” Adam said, “When it starts to heal, it could swell and close your airways.”

“Yeah,” Customer used the corner of the table to pull himself up, “and after that we’ll get an appointment to remove the stick up your ass.”

“Anyone ever tell you how _charming_ you are?” Adam gritted out.

“I could always stand to hear it again,” Customer said, taking a rest against the doorframe.

“Well you’re out of luck,” Adam said, “I hope you have a way of getting home.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Customer staggered through the shop, “Message received, beautiful. I’m gone.” The bell chimed as the door swung shut with a muffled thump.

Adam ran his hand through his hair. He suddenly felt very heavily. Blood was ingrained under his short nails like dirt. He sighed and turned—and spotted something fluttery and thin on the countertop. He snagged them and straightened them out.

Four hundred-dollar bills stared back at him, dog-eared and folded several times. He felt a series of emotions in quick succession—surprise, embarrassment, anger—before he stuffed the feelings down. It didn’t matter, he thought, folding the notes and tucking them into his shirt pocket. He’d just track the boy down and return them. He’d just explain that he didn’t want them and if that wasn’t enough, he’d just shred them. Adam patted his full pocket and continued closing up the store.

*

Throughout the rest of the week, he scoured his Aglionby classrooms, the lunchroom, and prowled briefly through the dorms. It had to fight for his time, between four shifts as a cashier and two nights spent with Gansey, combing through photocopies of an ancient text that he’d begged for from the London Museum. Although he sat patiently and highlighted the relevant passages, his mind was still pulled to the angry stranger, to his garish wounds.

All week it fizzed away in the back of his mind while he was folding linen at the factory. Had he been wrong about the stranger attending Aglionby? He didn’t think so, but it was looking likely. He didn’t know why he was so invested in it, either. Sure, he didn’t deserve the $400, but it wasn’t like the customer was going to miss it, either. He was better off putting it in the bank and calling it a stroke of good luck.

He was still thinking about it on Saturday, when the Customer pulled into Boyd’s in an ugly, oversized white Mitsubishi. He grinned through the window at Adam, who just stared back flatly.

“Good morning,” Customer drawled, rolling his window down. He was wearing large white sunglasses, which he seemed to be using only to keep his fringe pulled back.

“What do you want?” Adam asked.

“Hey, you told me to come back tomorrow.”

“That was three days ago,” Adam said, laying his hands in the sleek white side of the Mitsubishi.

“Was it?” Customer said, tilting his head, “Well, it’s the thought that counts.”

Adam glanced around the yard and found it empty. Boyd was probably in the office, which gave them a little bit of privacy. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the four hundred, thrusting it at Customer.

“Here,” Adam said, “Take your damn money back.”

Customer pushed his hand away, smirking, “You don’t need it? So you just dress like that for the style?”

Adam tossed the money through the driver side window and turned on his heel. There was a low huff of an engine and the Mitsubishi started to trundle after him, the gravel crunching.

“C’mon grease monkey,” Customer called, “What’re you at a job for if you won’t take money for your work?”

“I get paid fair,” Adam snapped without turning, “A few bandages and a spray of disinfectant doesn’t cost four hundred bucks.”

“Hey,” Customer snatched Adam’s shoulder.

Adam spun and slapped his hand off him. Customer stopped the car. He was hanging half-out of the driver side window, careful to avoid jostling his side. It had only been a few days—it must still be lethally painful.

“Listen,” Customer folded the notes with his long fingers, “You ever been to the hospital? You know how much it would have cost me, without insurance, to get fixed up? That plus the hush money, that’s practically ripping you off.”

Customer held the wad of notes out, folded into a little flute that was suspiciously like the shape of something you might smoke.

Adam stared at it for a long moment.

Then, reluctantly, he plucked it from Customer’s long fingers. Customer made a low, purring noise of approval.

“What does it matter to you, anyway?” Adam said.

“I just like to do good business,” Customer purred. It made Adam snort, and Customer returned with a sly smile, “Not often I get help from a doe-eyed stranger. You’re a regular good fucking Samaritan.”

“I’m not,” Adam said.

Customer tilted his head, mockingly, “Oh, modest too? You’re—”

“No,” Adam waved a hand, “I’m not a stranger. We both go to Aglionby.”

Customer leaned back in his seat and glanced over Adam from head to toe. It was the kind of look that made Adam’s skin crawl. He wanted to curl into a ball. Or slap him.

Customer’s eyes landed on Adam’s name tag, “Adam Parrish?”

“Yeah,” Adam said.

“You’ve made no impression,” Customer ran a hand through his hair, grinning, “You know my name, Parrish?”

Adam tried not to grimace. Finally, he said, “I don’t.”

Customer laughed, booming and shrill, “You’re a real prize. Well, no wonder you helped my fucking sorry ass.”

“What is it, then?” Adam snapped.

“Kavinsky,” Customer drawled, “Joseph Kavinsky.”

Adam waited in silence. Customer—Kavinsky—was clearly waiting for something to happen. The longer the silence stretched, the sharper Kavinsky’s smile grew.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Adam asked, finally.

Kavinsky laughed again. Adam didn’t like how much enjoyment Kavinsky was getting out of the conversation—it seemed to be at his expense. He glared at him.

“I’ve left no impression?” Kavinsky said, voice light and sharp, “What about my coked-out mother, my rich-bitch father? My forgeries? My reckless disregard for safety or money?”

Adam leaned on the window, glaring, “That makes you different from other Aglionby boys—how?”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Kavinsky flopped gently back on his seat. Apparently relentlessly mocking Adam had drained the strength out of him, “Ain’t that the _fucking_ truth.”

“Did you want something?” Adam asked, “You know, besides, interrupting my work schedule.”

“Oh, sorry, am I delaying _all these people_ ,” Kavinsky swung out his arms, gesturing to the empty lot and the quiet road, “from getting your expert attention?”

Adam was quickly losing patience, “If that’s all—”

“Hey, sweetie,” Kavinsky snatched his shirt sleeve, “Hey, ‘scuse the tone, baby, I only came to talk to you a little.”

“You’re already talked,” Adam said, slapping Kavinsky’s hand away, “a lot.”

“And you’ve been listening with rapturous attention,” Kavinsky said, “I know, I know.”

Adam leaned on the snout of the ugly white Mitsubishi. He waited, while Kavinsky looked him over and over.

“You just moved?” Kavinsky asked, finally.

“No,” Adam said, “I’ve attended since the first year.”

“Can’t be,” Kavinsky said, “I’m good with faces.”

“Maybe you aren’t as good as you think you are,” Adam said.

Kavinsky raised his dark eyebrows but said nothing.

“What about you?” Adam asked, “I was looking for you in school but I didn’t see you.”

“Oh, I’m on compassionate leave at the moment.”

“Compassionate leave?”

“Yeah, my granny died or my aunt or something like that,” Kavinsky waved a hand, “Truth is, I can’t sit still long.”

Adam felt an unexpected prickle of pity. With a wound like that, it was a surprise Kavinsky could sit in his car long enough to drive over. When he looked again, he noticed a tense spot under Kavinsky’s eye. It looked like he was hurting badly.

“This is gon’ bother me,” Kavinsky said, “Who do you run with?”

“Run with?” Adam repeated flatly. Kavinsky just smirked at him. Adam was silent, thinking hard. It felt weirdly personal to tell him, like confessing a secret. But that was a stupid feeling. Adam straightened up and swallowed, “Richard Gansey III and Ronan Lynch.” Noah, too, but Adam didn’t want to share that. They were his only real friends in the whole world.

Kavinsky looked devilishly delighted, “Wow! You are full of surprises.”

“Is that a problem?” Adam asked, sharply.

“Not for me, baby,” Kavinsky said, wolfishly, “Never for me. I love fraternising with the enemy.”

“The enemy?”

“Ronan and I don’t like to play nice,” Kavinsky said, “We’re rivals, you could say. We race.”

Adam had seen people drag race around Henrietta. It was always irritating and showy, the thundering roars of the engines, the shaking earth. “And Gansey?”

“Dicky doesn’t like that Ronan races,” Kavinsky drawls, “but Ronan’ll never listen to him. So instead he hates me. It’s simpler that way—he likes to think if I weren’t here Ronan would pad around after him like a good little doggy.”

Kavinsky didn’t seem too broken up about it. If anything, Adam got the impression Kavinsky liked being disliked. It was very easy to believe—Kavinsky was exactly the type of person Gansey loathed; brash and rude and unforgivable.

“Right,” Kavinsky pulled out his ringing phone, “I’ve got to love ya and leave ya, Adam.”

“Wait,” Adam said, before he could stop himself.

Kavinsky watched him, dark eyes unreadable.

“Your wound,” Adam said, “it’ll need redressing. You’re better off letting me do it. Come in just before closing tomorrow.”

“Ah,” Kavinsky said, “Money hungry, are we?”

“Or don’t,” Adam shot back, “Maybe a little infection will improve your character.”

Kavinsky smiled salaciously, “No, it’s a date, gorgeous.”

Adam regretted offering, just a little. The Mitsubishi reversed, slipping over the gravel and backing haphazardly onto the open road. Kavinsky pressed the phone to his ear, talking loud and cheerful, as the car pulled away.

*

Sunday was predictably quiet. A few people drove in for car washes on their way from Church and made light conversation with Boyd while Adam and his co-worker attacked the mud which was crusted to the bumpers.

In the early afternoon, Boyd went home, leaving Adam with a small mound of admin for Adam to complete. It distracted him, which he liked. He was on the phone to a wheel supply when Kavinsky slunk in. Adam held a hand up for quiet and surprisingly, Kavinsky obeyed, leaning on the counter. He wouldn’t stop staring at Adam, so eventually Adam went into the back room to escape his eyes.

When the call was done, Adam returned, “You’re early.”

“I couldn’t stay away,” Kavinsky drawled. His sunglasses caught every bit of light, flashing dazzlingly.

“That just means we’ll be finished sooner,” Adam said, “Come on.”

“So mercenary,” Kavinsky followed him into the back room. He leaned against a dusty wall while Adam closed and locked the door.

“I’ll have to leave if there’s a customer,” Adam said, “You’ll hear the bell ring.”

“Fine by me,” Kavinsky said.

“Strip.”

Kavinsky stripped, dropping his expensive jacket on the dirty floor, followed by his tank top. In the daylight, Adam was uncomfortably aware of just have taut and muscular his classmate was, a lean lithe tanned figure, his collar bones sharp and jutting. Adam focused his attention on the criss-cross of bandages over his stomach.

“Your neck’s better,” Adam said, loosening the bandages.

“Sure,” Kavinsky rumbled, eyes on Adam’s hands. Every time their skin brushed, Kavinsky’s grin grew. The closer layers of the bandages were stuck tightly onto him, the blood dried and crisp.

“Lie down,” Adam ordered.

Kavinsky lowered himself onto the floor, balling up his jacket under his hips to keep them off the floor. “Lean back,” Adam said, and Kavinsky leaned back, lifting his hips to let Adam’s hands pass under his spine.

He closed his eyes when Adam broke the bandages from him. It was dreadful work. Adam tried to be gently, but the blood had plastered against the damaged skin, and every time he tried to separate them, he could feel it tugging. It was a slow, agonising kind of torture.

“You’re obedient,” Adam said, continuing to talk in the hopes of distracting him.

“Naw, baby,” Kavinsky said, “Our interests are aligning, that’s all.”

“I ain’t your baby,” Adam said, his Henrietta accent colouring his words. It seemed stupid to distract himself trying to impress Kavinsky.

“No, you _ain't,_ ” Kavinsky agreed, letting out a hiss as Adam accidentally pulled out a few of his hairs separating a bandage from him, “Treat me a little sweeter, will you?”

“Sorry,” Adam said, quietly.

Kavinsky’s eyes flickered open, fixing Adam with a strange look. Then his eyes closed again.

“You should have changed these earlier,” Adam said, “You’ve bled through most of them. Also, you should probably get it sewn up.”

Kavinsky clucked his tongue.

“At least get some bed rest this time,” Adam said.

“If my wound heals what excuse can I use to see you?” Kavinsky muttered. He knocked up his large sunglasses, so they rested on his forehead.

“If you keep acting this way,” Adam said, “I’ll be at your funeral instead.”

“That’s sweet’ve you.”

Adam reached the last section of bandages, which was hardened onto the gauze. Instead of trying to separate them, he cut the bandage at the bottom. Removing the gauze would disturb the wound too much. Instead, he sprayed a liberal purple splotch over it. Kavinsky gagged and coughed in pain.

“Y’know,” Kavinsky said, voice rough and low, “You ain’t asked.”

Adam paused, eyed fixed on the white bandages he was wrapping around the other boy. He chewed his lip, “It’s not my business.”

“That’s not what most people say,” Kavinsky said, “Anyway, I made it your business.”

“I’m not most people,” Adam said, with finality.

Kavinsky watched him. Kavinsky’s eyes were liquid dark, it was impossible to tell where the iris ended, and the pupil began. It was like a very deep, full well.

“You gotta be shittin’ me,” Kavinsky said, breathless, “We’re the same, ain’t we?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Adam said, refusing to look at him.

“No, I’m right, aren’t I?” Kavinsky huffed, “Who is it? Your momma? Your girl? Damn—it’s your dad, isn’t it? Same as me, the exact same.”

“Shut up,” Adam said, hotly. Kavinsky was treading on very dangerous territory. It felt like the other boy was holding Adam’s heart in his hand and squeezing, squeezing.

“No,” Kavinsky’s hand shot out and snatched Adam’s wrist, pulling up the long sleeve before Adam could stop him. An ugly, old bruise was vivid across Adam’s pale wrist, the size and shape of a fat hand.

Adam slapped his hand away, far harder than he usually would, “I thought I told you to never put your hands on me.”

“Tell your poppa to stop first,” Kavinsky said, smiling predatorially, “Damn, I bet Gansey loves that. He loves gathering busted boys. You and Lynch are two of a pair.”

“Shut up,” Adam hissed, anger hot and pounding in his chest, “You don’t know anything about him!”

“Maybe I ought to get to know him,” Kavinsky said, “Maybe he might pick me up too, add me to the harem.”

“You stay away from him, Kavinsky,” Adam said, straightening up.

“Alright, alright,” Kavinsky raised his hands in a placating gesture, “I’m not gonna make a move on your man. You can put your damn fists down.”

Adam realised with a sick feeling that his hands had balled into fists and he’d raised them, as if he’d pummel Kavinsky. A hot, ugly punch of shame hit his belly. He lowered his hands and forced himself to calm down. Then he realised, belatedly, that he’d also swung his leg over Kavinsky’s, to get a better angle, and now he was sitting on his lap. He could feel the brush of expensive jeans through his worn-out khakis. But he also felt that moving off would be an admission of something.

Kavinsky stretched back, like a cat, his arms reaching back and his back arching. His ribs were pronounced, his stomach twitching.

Adam felt something strange in his chest, an anxious, unhappy feeling, like he was hovering on the edge of something dangerous. He’d dropped the bandages when he’d almost attacked Kavinsky, and he had to unwind and redress the bandages, so they remained tight around him. He worked in silence, his knuckles brushing the dirty floor.

“So,” Adam said, feeling a little queasy, “It was your dad that—bit you?”

Kavinsky had thrown one arm over his eyes. He peered at Adam, “Sure.”

“Sure,” Adam echoed, mildly irritated, “Why’d be bite you?”

“I was wriggling too much,” Kavinsky said, and yawned.

Adam finished the bandages and tied them off. He dug through his suitcase, “I’m going to wrap it in some more padding. I think it’ll stop you from jostling it so much. Don’t get it wet.”

“It’ll ruin the line of my suits,” Kavinsky murmured.

Adam ignored him. He didn’t have much padding and he used all of it, taping it with hyper-adhesive tape to Kavinsky’s skin. It would probably pull out more hairs when he tried to remove it, but if it stopped the wound from reopening it would be worth it.

“What about you, huh?” Kavinsky asked, when Adam climbed off him.

Adam knew what he meant immediately, but took his time answering, “Oh… Well, this time I was home too late. But I don’t really think there’s much of a reason.”

Kavinsky huffed agreement, levering himself off the floor. He pulled his tank top over his head and slung his jacket around his shoulders. When Adam returned from tucking away his suitcase, Kavinsky caught his shoulder and tucked something into Adam’s shirt pocket.

Adam fished it out again.

“Six Benjamins,” Kavinsky said.

$600 stared back at Adam, the half-smile of the dead president almost mocking. He shuffled through the notes, and raised his eyebrow at the phone number scrawled in black ink over the top of the middle one. He glanced at Kavinsky.

Kavinsky kissed him on the cheek, fleetingly, and kicked the breakroom door open.

Adam followed him out, mildly annoyed, “I don’t have a phone.”

“Har Har,” Kavinsky flipped him off without looking back, “drop me a line when your lonely-hearts club gets boring. See ya.” He kicked the mechanic’s door open and vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> tw: blood, injury, amateur wound care


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw in end notes

Adam didn’t see Kavinsky for almost a full week.

It was enough for him to settle back into his regular routine. He worked his jobs. He was ceaselessly polite to his parents. He did his homework and attended lessons. He sat around with Gansey, Ronan and Noah and talked.

Gansey had made a recording of the church on St. Mark's Eve. He had heard his name, spoken softly, like a prayer.

Adam made sceptical comments, but in truth he was intrigued. Knowing Gansey, it wasn’t a prank, and it was unlikely to be a recording artefact on very new equipment. He knew about hearing phantom sounds, patterns detected by the brain where none existed. _Gansey…_ The voice had said, so tentatively. _Is that all?_

*

A car pulls into Boyd’s in the middle of the afternoon rush. It was a small, compact fiesta, its black sides reflecting all the light. Adam didn’t notice it, buried halfway into the engine of an old, weakened Toyota. He was drawn out of it by Daisy, another student mechanic with short, choppy black hair.

“You know a Prokopenko?” Daisy asked.

“No,” Adam said, rubbing grease between his fingers.

“One’s asking for you,” Daisy said, “Let me take over.”

Adam released the engine into her care and padded around the busy lot. The fiesta gleamed like a compact black beetle. A dark, handsome young man leaned out of the window and waved at Adam, far too happy for someone Adam didn’t even recognise.

“You Adam Parrish?” The boy, presumably Prokopenko, asked.

“Yes,” Adam said, “Did you have an appointment?”

“Aw, do I need an appointment to talk to you?” Prokopenko asked, “I just wanna chat.”

Adam glared at him, “You’re with Kavinsky.”

“Great, you know me,” Prokopenko said, “He was expecting you to call. Are you busy?”

“I don’t have a phone,” Adam said.

Prokopenko laughed, “Right. I’ll call him.” He pulled out a little silver device and pawed at it. As the dial tone rang through the musty air, Adam wondered just what he’d done to attract this kind of attention. Prokopenko was handsome, rich, and with presumably much better things to do than chase after Adam Parrish, but here he was. Kavinsky must have more friends than Adam had assumed.

The phone was thrust into his hands.

“Hello?” Adam asked into the receiver.

“ _I’m not on speaker, am I?_ ” Kavinsky’s drawl reverberated through the phone. Adam was struck with indecision.

“I,” Adam frowned, “I don’t think so.”

“ _You don’t think so… man you weren’t fucking around when you said you didn’t have a cell,_ ” Kavinsky’s voice pitched higher, like he was about to laugh, “ _Listen Parrish. I’ve got a thing at some guy’s house this Sunday. Are you coming?_ ”

Adam felt a rush of dark feeling. He frowned at nobody. He wished he could see Kavinsky’s face—he didn’t know what the boy was feeling. “I know you think ’cause our dads are the same we’ve got this special bond, but I—”

“ _Special bond!_ ” Kavinsky did laugh then, “ _You’re shitting me, Parrish. I’m asking you to come to a fucking house party, not for your hand in marriage. It’s a yes or no, baby, let’s not get philosophical._ ”

Adam was silent for a long moment. He had been saving the weekend as a chance to catch up on sleep and potentially work with Gansey on something. He scratched the back of his neck. Eventually, he said, “How would I get there?”

“ _You finish at Boyd’s at six, right?_ ” Kavinsky said, “ _I’ll get you picked up then._ ” The line clicked off.

“Wait—!” Adam pulled the phone away from his ear. He considered pressing redial, but eventually decided against it. He didn’t know what he’d say to Kavinsky anyway.

“You done?” Prokopenko asked, languidly.

Adam tossed him the phone. Prokopenko had a permanent sunny expression which Adam was starting to find deeply annoying.

“Is it true your dad’s like Kavinsky’s?” Prokopenko asked, “That must suck.”

Hot anger rose in Adam and he slapped the top of the Fiesta, “Drive away and don’t come back.”

“Sure,” Prokopenko slid his car into reverse and drove away.

*

Sunday evening, Declan had extended an invitation to Nino’s for all of them. He wanted to go but had turn him down. Adam had no reliable way of calling Kavinsky, and he couldn’t risk both Gansey and Kavinsky or one of Kavinsky’s minions turning up to pick him up from Boyd’s. He wasn’t ready for those worlds to collide, at least not just yet.

And besides, a part of Adam wanted something different. He didn’t want another evening talking over the same talking points they’d been going over for months, he didn’t want to mediate between the Lynch brothers, the same tale told over and over. He wanted what Kavinsky had to offer him—something sharp and frighteningly alive.

When Adam turned him down, Gansey looked defeated, though he had quickly recovered himself and smiled. That had stung. Usually when he turned down Gansey, he could rest in the knowledge that he’d done everything reasonable to free up space for him. This time felt strangely illicit.

As it approached six o’clock at Boyd’s, Adam felt increasingly that he’d made a mistake. His stomach squirmed.

At six-fifteen, someone knocked on the top of the trunk Adam was crawled under. He resurfaced, careful not to touch the clean bonnet with his greasy fingers.

“Adam,” Boyd smiled down at him, “There’s someone here for you.”

“Who?” Adam asked climbing to his feet.

“She didn’t tell,” Boyd said, “She’s a real, certified dime, though. Wow. You’re a lucky guy.”

Adam frowned, snagging a towel and scraping his fingers clean. His mouth was full of the smell of grease and dust. He was hardly in the state to attend a party, but he didn’t even stop to wash his face or comb his hair. He didn’t have the energy. He snatched his work bag from the countertop.

A car horn began to blare, punishingly loud, the moment Adam opened the shop door.

In the middle of the lot, parked crookedly, a huge, open-topped car purred and rumbled restlessly. A stunning girl with piles and piles of thick, silky black curls was at the wheel, one arm hanging out of the window. She wore gleaming black sunglasses, her lips so red it looked like she had taken a potato peeler to them.

“Parrish?” She said, her smile wolfish. “кой е това?” Asked a boy in the back of the car. He had a shaved head and a single stud in one ear. He was ignored.

“Yes,” Adam said, uncertainly.

The black-haired girl gestured to the front passenger seat, that was empty apart from an empty, crushed coke can. Adam picked it up and tossed it into the bin. “You’re Kavinsky’s friends, right?” He asked.

“Ah, Kavinsky!” The girl said, encouragingly. She gave him a big thumbs up.

“Ти не ме слушаш,” The boy complained, sourly. He smacked the back of the driver’s seat.

The girl finally turned around, her earrings winking and hair bouncing over her skimpy dress, “Ти майтапиш ли се с мен? Не искам да говоря с теб!”

Adam stood silently, watching the exchange. The two strangers looked very similar—they had the same high, arching brows and long-lashed eyes, the same jet-black hair and unfreckled, icy skin. Both were strikingly beautiful with sharp, refined features and dark, alluring eyes. They could be siblings.

The girl fixed him with her sharp eyes and beckoned him into the car. Her nails were a crisp black.

Adam straightened up. He thought for a long moment and scratched the back of his neck. “I need to bring my bike.”

The girl watched him, completely uncomprehending.  
Adam stared back at her.

“Байк,” The boy in the back prompted, sullenly. The girl brightened immediately and jabbed her thumb towards the back of the car. Adam followed her motion. A rickety bike rack had been nailed to the bonnet.

“Right,” Adam said, feeling a warm bubble of relief. He fetched his bike and attached it to the bike rack. He still didn’t know whether he was making a mistake, but he found himself liking the Bulgarian twins.

The girl leaned towards him, revealing a wealth of pale skin and generous cleavage. She tabbed a black-nailed finger on her collarbone, “Katenka.”

“Adam,” Adam pointed at himself and opened the door, climbing into the passenger seat. He nodded towards the boy in the back, “Who’s that?”

“Ach,” said Katenka, reading the gesture, “глупавият ми брат.”

“Престани,” The boy in the back snapped, then in English: “I am Kostya.”

Adam smiled at him, and Kostya didn’t smile back. Katenka smiled enough for the both of them and eased her foot off the brake. The car slid, smooth as anything, onto the road.

“поставете колана си на!” Katenka pointed at the seatbelt Adam had neglected. Adam quickly buckled himself in.

*

The car quickly began to gain speed as it streaked through long, empty Henrietta roads. Even as the speedometer crept upwards and upwards, Adam found he wasn’t worried. Katenka was an excellent driver, handled turns smoothly and sleekly, like a fish gliding through water. Even when the road was filled with potholes, she managed to navigate it elegantly, barely any trembles reading his feet.

Adam was almost disappointed when Katenka began to slow down as they approached their destination. It seemed to a huge, geometric mansion, built like a dozen blocks had just fallen from the sky. Spotless windows reflected the evening sky like gigantic, square eyes. Katenka slowed to a stop outside the yawning gate.

“погрижи се за него,” Katenka said, beaming.

For a moment, Adam worried that he was supposed to know what that meant, but then Kostya opened the door and climbed out, bringing a heavy backpack with him. “Come, Adam,” Kostya beckoned.

Adam followed him. Katenka waved cheerily and glided away, presumably to find parking. Kostya and him stood for a moment on the empty suburban street. Adam felt strangely alone.

“Smiling like that,” Kostya said, dismayed, as he watched his sister drive off, “You know, Americans smile all the time, all the time, and then Katenka does. When we go home everyone think she’s crazy. Crazy girl.”

“I like it,” Adam said, mildly.

Kostya tutted and waved a hand at him, as if that proved his point. He began to walk up the long driveway to the house. He was nearly a full head taller than Adam, with broad shoulders and a shock of black hair.

“Where will the car be?” Adam asked, “I’ll need my bike again soon.”

Kostya pointed to a deep red brick building off the side of the main mansion, “Garage.”

Adam committed it to memory. He didn’t really know what he was doing, or when he was leaving. He didn’t know what time his parents would be expecting him back. He thought he’d enjoy the uncertainty more, but it just made him queasy.

Kostya opened the front door.

Music burst into the front lawn, a thumping, rolling house track, loud enough to shake the cement floors. The source of the music was in some distant room, because all Adam could make out was the baseline, punishing and consistent.

Adam walked inside. The mansion was surprisingly unfurnished, the walls clean and blank. There were sparse sets of chairs and tables. Several six-packs of canned beer gleamed from where they were stacked against a kitchen set.

“Kostya—” Adam started, but realised Kostya had vanished. He turned around and again and couldn’t find him. People clustered around the corners or tables. A laugh burst through from somewhere, high and giddy.

Adam felt hands cover his eyes, “Guess who?”

Adam slapped Kavinsky before he’d even processed what had happened. Kavinsky took a step back, his cheek red where Adam had hit him.

“Wow!” Kavinsky touched his face, “She’s got claws!”

“What do you want?” Adam asked. Kavinsky was wearing all black, and it looked irritatingly good on him. His shape was sleek and wolfish, his hair combed and styled back. The only colour on him was his blood red shoes.

“I never want for anything, Parrish,” Kavinsky purred, “I get everything eventually. That’s the whole point.”

Adam shrunk away, adjusting the strap of his work bag. He was already regretting coming.

“Come on, putty-cat,” Kavinsky slunk close, “Let’s go have some fun.”

Kavinsky snagged his wrist, and for some reason, Adam let himself be dragged up the broad, modern staircase into the room above. It was smaller, which Adam preferred, with dark walls and low lighting, bordered on all sides by black couches.

“Who’s house is this?” Adam asked.

Kavinsky said, “Does it matter?”

It didn’t, Adam supposed. He watched Kavinsky break the metal cap of a beer bottle off with his teeth and spit it out. Dozens of people were in the room already, shifting around in the low light. Adam could see bright neon shirts and long, sleek legs. The music was a distant thumping and thumping, like the house had a heartbeat. It was low enough to make conversation. Adam dropped his work bag onto the couch. Its contents—several Aglionby textbooks, a work shirt, a notebook and a dozen blotchy pens—were unlikely to be worth stealing.

“Here,” Kavinsky pressed a Kopperberg fruits into his hands.

“I don’t drink,” Adam said.

“Shouldn’t frown so much, sweetheart,” Kavinsky said, not taking the drink away, “You’ll get wrinkles.”

Adam scowled harder, “I don’t drink, that’s it. You should know why.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kavinsky took a swig of his own drink, something amber and with ice cubes, “Your pops gets pissed and whales on you. But you got a high opinion of yourself if you think I’d let you throw me around.”

Adam snatched the drink from Kavinsky’s hands and upended it. Cheap beer sloshed over his expensive shoes, and a girl in sequins next to them squealed and jumped away. Kavinsky only laughed, because Kavinsky always laughed.

“You’re a riot,” Kavinsky laughed, “You’re wasted on Dicky and Lynch.”

Adam left the room. Anger was roiling in him.

*

For the next few hours, Adam cling to the fringes of the party, where the relentless music was only another background noise. He drank water only and ate bits of everything except the weed-brownies, weed-doughnut holes, and the most dubious and nasty looking weed-fudge Adam had ever had the misfortune to see.

When he took refuge on the empty stoop, Katenka sat next to him, her long black hair covering both her front and back. She held out a glass to him, filled with clear liquid, ice clinking together. Adam accepted it and sniffed.

“Is it alcoholic?” Adam asked.

“Обещавам, че е добре,” Katenka said.

“Er,” Adam pointed into it, “Vodka?”

Katenka shook her head, earrings winking. She produced a large bottle from her black leather purse. PREMIUM TEQUILA was emblazoned on the front, along with a red and black snake. To prove its worth, she took an unflinching swig, and smiled again.

“Thank you,” Adam said. He set it untouched on the stone stoop beside him.

It was a truly beautiful mansion, Adam had to admit. The long sweeps of dusk came in orange and periwinkle blue. Rolling fields were dark and silent, the trees shifting in the breeze.

Katenka wasn’t much for conversation, but she was very cheerful and easy on the eyes. She finished her Premium Tequila, the drink she’d mixed for herself, then Adam’s when it became clear he wasn’t coming back to it. Her earrings were long, silver feathers, Adam noticed, and they revealed themselves in flashes when her dark hair parted in just the right way.

“I don’t even know why I came,” Adam said, with a yawn. All the anger had drained out of him. Kavinsky was just a cheap bully, and his barbs were weak. He stretched out, his back meeting cool stone.

Katenka tapped his stomach.

Adam opened his eyes, peering at her.

She jingled her car keys at him, smiling brightly.

Adam raised a hand, “I’ve got to get my work bag.”

Katenka shrugged lightly and rolled to her feet. She left the stoop, heels clicking on the stone. Adam hoped that meant she was bringing the car around, not that she’d taken his motion as him turning her down.

Adam went back into the house. It had filled up while he’d been sitting house, and he had to weave in and out of warm, gyrating bodies. The air smelled of beer and sick. Adam wrinkled his nose and pushed his way up the stairs.

The music was lower. It was a shaking, bumping, living sound, the squeal of the guitars scraping at the insides of Adam’s ears. He gritted his teeth and pushed into the upstairs rooms. It was dim and took a moment for his eyes adjust.

This room had cleared out a little. Every substance was littered with empty cans and bottles, transparent plastic bags and shot glasses with a small amount of liquid remaining in them. Adam pushed past a couple that were slow-dancing to the fast electric music.

Adam snagged his work bag and glanced up.

Kavinsky lay spread-eagled across the couch. Or rather, Kavinsky was pinned to the couch, by a slim-hipped young woman with flat white hair. Adam didn’t mean to stare. But something about the way it was playing out made him pause.

Kavinsky was being kissed and kissed. His eyes slid shut and opened, slow. The young woman had a hand on his stomach, his tank top pulled up by her long nails. Kavinsky’s arms were resting over the arms of the couch, his fingers lax.

Adam felt something cold, in the base of his stomach. Before he registered what he was doing, he caught the young woman’s elbow.

The young woman broke away reluctantly, her bleached white hair sticking up in sharp lines over her shoulders. When she turned towards him, he could see she was holding Kavinsky’s chin in her hand, presumably to stop him slumping forward. Her black-kohl makeup was smudged at the edges.

“Excuse me,” Adam said, “Kavinsky?”

Kavinsky slow blinked at him, like a lazy fox. His expression was placid and cool, without even a smirk. He breathed slow and calm. Lipstick smears covered his mouth and chin.

“Kavinsky?” Adam snapped his fingers around the boy’s head, “Kavinsky?”

Kavinsky’s black, black eyes slid over to him. He made no over move.

“I’ve got him,” Adam said, firmly. The white-haired woman ran a hand through her brittle hair and dismounted with a disgusted look. She disappeared into the crowd, slipping between bodies.

Kavinsky was surprisingly malleable. Adam pulled him out of the couch and Kavinsky fell against him, long arms wrapping around Adam’s shoulders. What now? He couldn’t exactly bundle Kavinsky into a car and take him home—he didn’t know where Kavinsky lived and he wasn’t exactly sure Kavinsky would want to be there anyway.

Adam pulled Kavinsky through room after room. Kavinsky could barely walk, his legs clumsy and slow. People were always in the way, and ignored Adam when he asked them to move, so instead he had to shove.

There were no empty rooms on that floor, so Adam took the stairs again. Kavinsky was heavy and unwieldy. Adam had no idea what he’d taken—ketamine, or some sort of opioid—but it seemed to be getting worse.

On the second floor, there were less people. Adam kicked doors open and found bedrooms, unused and empty apart from the partygoers and their drinks and food. Eventually, Adam opened a door and found only two people, a boy and a girl who snogging on the bed.

“Get the fuck out,” Adam snapped, at the very end of his patience. He tried to look dangerous.

It worked, apparently. The couple slipped past him, pink with embarrassment. Adam shut the door after them, Kavinsky still draped around him. He brushed the worst of the crisp packets and chip dust from the bed sheets before he dropped Kavinsky onto the bed. The boy bounced slightly. His legs and arms stayed where Adam had dropped them.

Black eyes watched Adam as he locked the door. Adam took a moment to just watch him.

Kavinsky’s eyes followed him around the room, but his body betrayed nothing, only a slow, easy breathing. His eyes were unreadable. It reminded Adam sickly of a dying horse on an old western—something so huge and powerful made so utterly vulnerable.

Adam broke his eyes away and sighed. He couldn’t leave Kavinsky alone like this, even if he was a bastard. It could be worse. He dropped his bag beside the desk and fished out his textbooks. The room was oddly hollow, the empty racks of shelves above the desk looked like missing teeth.

Adam opened his textbooks and began to work.

*

Adam woke up.

His back hurt. He peeled himself off his textbook and blinked blearily around the room until he spotted the digital clock on the bedside. 3 AM. Adam unfolded himself from the table and stretched. A heavy fatigue hung around his neck.

Cracking open the pristine cabinet, he pulled down the fluffy white spare covers and dropped them in a heap on the floor. He approached the bed and unplugged the digital clock—he doubted Kavinsky had anywhere to go tomorrow.

Adam glanced over Kavinsky. His eyes were closed, and he lay very still. Adam picked up the boy’s tanned wrist and turned it over, pressing fingers into the pulse-point. Good. He spent a moment just watching Kavinsky’s chest rise and fall.

Adam plugged the clock back in where he could see it from the floor. He turned out the lights and crawled into his little nest, body heavy and mind numb.

*

Adam peeled his eyes open. He didn’t feel any more rested, but he saw that the blinking digital clock read **7:15 AM. MON 14**. He dragged himself out of bed.

He felt dishevelled and out of sorts, like he always did when he slept in his clothes. Adam snatched his work bag from the desk and trudged downstairs.

The garage took a while to figure out. It was accessible through a side door, and although it had a keypad, the pin was helpful scrawled above it in permanent marker. The garage was about the size of a gymnasium, with two rows of sleek black cars.

Katenka’s car wasn’t there. Adam glanced over the cars and then looked at then individually. It wasn’t there. He found a window and peered out at the immaculate window, but there were no cars there at all. Anxiety started to prickle in his chest. Part of his scholarship relied on near-100% attendance and he needed to save the small days of leniency for when he was actually unwell—not for days where he was late because he was watching someone he didn’t even like go through a K-hole.

Adam stalked through the empty house and searched for the kitchen.

“Parrish!” Prokopenko called. He sat with his legs folded neatly under him at the breakfast nook, “Did you enjoy—”

“Where’s Katenka?” Adam asked.

“Katenka?” Prokopenko tilted his head, thinking for a moment, “Er, Katenka Gueorgieo or Katenka Anev? Was her full name Yekaterina?”

“Forget it,” Adam scrubbed a hand through his hair, “Is there a bike somewhere? She might have left it for me.”

“It could be parked in the garage,” Prokopenko suggested sunnily.

“Not that kind of bike,” Adam said, “Not, like, a motorbike. I mean a manual bike. Something you pedal.”

Prokopenko looked mystified.

“Forget it, forget it,” Adam held his head in his hands. Could he call Gansey? He struggled to remember his number—he didn’t even know where he was. Would Gansey even be able to drive this far?—He knew Gansey woke up with barely enough time to drive himself to school on days when he wasn’t shuttling people around. He massaged his scalp, anxiety prickling at his stomach.

“Oh, Good morning Kavinsky,” Prokopenko said, “Have you seen a bike? The kind you pedal?”

Adam spun around. Kavinsky was half-limping down the stairs, leaning heavily on the bannister.

Kavinsky looked like he’d been shot. His skin was pale and his eyes were rimmed with bruise-black. He moved like a wounded animal, very slowly and cautiously. His hair was sticking in all directs and every part of him shook gently.

“Like a unicycle?” Kavinsky asked, voice rough and low, “Can’t say I have.”

“Kavinsky,” Adam said, sharply.

“Parrish,” Kavinsky waved a hand at him before slumping against the kitchen island, “Prokopenko you got any coffee on the go?”

“Yes boss,” Prokopenko said, fetching a cup and pouring a liberal amount of jet-black expresso into it.

“Kavinsky!” Adam said, trying to draw the attention back to him.

“Parrish,” Kavinsky repeated, dryly. He brought the cup to his lips and drag deeply.

“What am I supposed to do?” Adam asked, “I need my bike!”

“I know where Katenka lives,” Kavinsky finished the cup and slapped it down on the counter. He braced himself on the kitchen, shoulders high like he was going to vomit. He breathed thinly.

“How does that help me?” Adam snapped, “I can’t walk to school!”

“ _Relax,_ Parrish,” Kavinsky pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and tapped them against the table until one rose from the rest. He pulled it out and put it between his lips, “I’ll drive you.”

“What?” Adam blinked.

“I’ll drive,” Kavinsky said, “You got a light, Penko?”

Prokopenko produced a lighter from somewhere and lit his cigarette. Kavinsky let it burn for a second before pulling in a breath. He made a relieved noise.

“You’re gonna drive?” Adam said, sceptically.

“You a little slow, Parrish?” Kavinsky rubbed the back of his scalp, sauntering out of the kitchen. His bright red shoes were sticky with dry beer and squeaked across the smooth wood flooring.

“Under the speed limit?” Adam followed him.

“What do you think?” Kavinsky said, kicking open the front door. He grimaced at the sun like he’d been sprayed with boiling water, “Shit, that’s bright.”

Adam followed him down the drive to where Kavinsky’s bulky white Mitsubishi was parked half onto the curb. Kavinsky threw open the door and slid inside. He cracked his neck and tapped the ash from his cigarette into the cup holder. Adam climbed into the passenger seat. The air was heavy with the smell of smoke.

Kavinsky looked rotten. He looked like something you might drag out of the bottom of a lake. He pushed dark sunglasses over his bruised eyes. The Mitsubishi rolled away from the curb and Kavinsky turned the steering wheel boredly.

Kavinsky didn’t turn the radio on or talk, and Adam didn’t either. Silence filled the car.

They had been surprisingly close to Aglionby after all. After a few turns, the familiar flats and hills that surrounded the school suddenly came into view. Adam watched the trees and hedges flip by. They were going surprisingly slowly.

Kavinsky stubbed out his cigarette onto the dashboard and let the white end drop onto the floor. He pulled into the long, broad drive of Aglionby, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. It was still another half hour before anyone would be arriving, and it was too early for the boarding students to be awake. Kavinsky stopped the car and the rumble of the engine dropped to nothing.

“Thanks for the lift,” Adam said, unbuckling his seat.

“I ain’t forgotten your bike,” Kavinsky said, quietly. Adam glanced at him. Tired and sick, Kavinsky took on a different tone altogether. Adam wasn’t sure he liked it.

“Thanks,” Adam said, and shut the door behind him.

*

The bike worried him a little, all throughout the day. Gansey cornered him after the last lesson let out.

“We’re going to study today,” Gansey reminded him, “Did you forget? Ronan needs help with Calculus.”

“I need to get my bike,” Adam said, shuffling through his schoolwork. The night before had left him out of sorts and anxious.

“What are you talking about?” Gansey frowned, “Your bike’s on the pig.”

Adam looked back at him.

“I saw it tied up to the gates when I came in this morning,” Gansey said, “I’ve already put it onto the Camaro.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> tw: a character is (implied to be) roofied


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw in end notes

Adam almost swore when he saw the white Mitsubishi pull into Boyd’s. 

All morning, he’d been thinking about Blue. She wasn’t a psychic (but kind of was) and everyone else had apparently met her at Nino’s before they saw her at the reading. This apparently wasn’t a good thing. Noah had asked her out through Gansey, who had allegedly put his foot in his mouth trying to relay the message. Still, Blue was funny and a relief from the rich people he was usually around. He could see her and Noah really making it work. 

The Mitsubishi knocked all of those thoughts out of his head. The familiar driver leaned out of the window, talking to Boyd. 

“Oh, Adam,” Boyd said when he returned, “Can you change this young man’s tires?”

“Sure,” Adam said, trying to keep his voice level. He fetched the jack and the wrench.

Kavinsky hung out of the window and smirked at him when he came close. His back wheel was very obviously flat, as if someone had slashed it with a knife. 

“What do you want?” Adam asked. 

“I told your shitty manager,” Kavinsky said, “I want a new tire.” 

Adam fit the jack under the side of the car and attached the wrench, “You know what I mean.” 

“I want to invite you someplace,” Kavinsky said. His arms hung on the edge of the window, like a dog. He looked only marginally better than the day before. 

“What, so I can spend another night watching you fall down a K-hole and sleeping on the floor?” Adam said, “I think I’ll pass.” 

“I promise you’ll be the sole focus of my attention,” Kavinsky said, languidly. 

“Are you going to get high off your ass again?” Adam asked, twisting the wrench. 

Kavinsky grinned at him, jackal sharp. 

“Well, then, there’s your answer.”

“C’mon, Parrish,” Kavinsky said, “I owe you.” 

“You already paid me for patching you up,” Adam said, loosening the tire, “Even tipped me.” 

“Not for that,” Kavinsky said, simply. 

Adam watched him out of the corner of his eye. He released the flat tire and set it down on the dirt nearby. Finally, he asked, “Is it a house-party?” 

“Better,” Kavinsky said. 

“You actually gon’ tell me what it is?” Adam asked. 

“Don’t you trust me, Parrish?” 

“Not an inch,” Adam lifted a new tire onto the mount, turning it slightly. 

“It’s just a little get together,” Kavinsky said, “Do you like racing? I promise I’ll win.” 

Adam kept his attention on reattaching the tire. He avoided Kavinsky’s eyes. Kavinsky had eyes like a hunting animal, like a hawk. Adam could always feel then on him, even when he wasn’t looking. 

Adam wanted to go. He didn’t know why, but he did. It was something about Kavinsky, some kind of edge to him. All his other friends—Gansey, Noah, and now Blue—he’d bonded with because of their kindness, because of how soft they were to him. Even Ronan was hardly ever truly nasty. It was clear that under the hard armour Ronan was as nice as Gansey. 

Kavinsky wasn’t. Under the armour was more armour, and a heart like a peach stone. And for some reason, Adam wanted that. He wanted to be near that. In Kavinsky was a sharp point, sheered away to a razor, and Adam recognised it in himself, too. 

Adam finished the tire and sat back on his heels. 

“Will it be fun?” Adam asked, finally. 

“Of course, of course,” Kavinsky smiled broadly, as if he’d won a prize. “I’ll be back when your shift’s over.” 

Adam watched the car slip away.

*

As closing time drew nearer, Adam found himself oddly excited. A part of him always wanted to race. A big part of him. But he’d probably never have a car and he’d absolutely never have a car which could to toe to toe with anything as sleek or as dangerous as the cars Kavinsky drove. So, like many things, Adam had simply parcelled it up and packed it somewhere deep inside him, until he could forget he’d ever wanted it. 

Kavinsky pulled into the lot outside Boyd’s, his headlights burning stars in the gloom. Adam clocked out and approached the car slowly. 

“Hello, darling,” Kavinsky said, lavishly. 

Adam opened the passenger side door and climbed in, “When is it?” 

Kavinsky laughed, pulling out onto the road before Adam had even shut the door properly. Something about the night restored him. All trace of vulnerability or pain had been seared away, and Adam was looking at the same wolfish, hard-hearted boy everyone whispered about. 

“Whenever I want it,” Kavinsky pressed his foot down on the accelerator, “you’re looking at the King, Parrish.” 

Outside, the night was gathering around them. Adam clipped himself in. Bushes sped past them in a grey-green blur. The white lines of the road sliced beneath them. 

“I got something for you,” Kavinsky said, and tossed a shoebox at him. 

Adam caught it and opened it. At least twenty burner phones stared back at him. Every make, every model, some sleek silver smart phones, some brick-like cheap nokias. He shifted through them. They must make up three months of his wages, all together—if not more. 

“I don’t want your pity, Kavinsky,” Adam said. 

“I don’t have pity,” Kavinsky hissed, “I’m sick of making house calls. If you want to roll with me, you gotta be a little less distant.” 

“Well I don’t want it,” Adam shoved the shoebox into Kavinsky’s lap. 

Kavinsky peered at him, lip curling. Then he slapped the buttons on the driver side door, and the window rolled down. The thump of wind in his ears was deafening. Keeping one hand on the wheel, Kavinsky used the other to flick the lid off the shoebox. 

Then he tipped the contents out of the window. 

“What the fuck—?” Adam yelped. 

Kavinsky only grinned and continued to tip them out. There was a clatter as some of them hit the doorframe. Samsungs, Nokias, Blackberrys—all bounced and jumped into the hurtling wind. The car was moving too fast for Adam to hear anything crack, but he could imagine it. Screens shattering, buttons dislodging, batteries bouncing from their sleek black cases. It was enough to turn his stomach. 

“Stop!” Adam yelled, “Stop it!” 

Kavinsky stopped, dropping the half-full shoebox into his lap. He leaned into a curve as the car had to make a turn in the road. The Mitsubishi hurtled forward. 

“What’s wrong, Parrish?” Kavinsky drawled, “Thought you didn’t want them.” 

“I don’t,” Adam said. 

“Right,” Kavinsky said, and lifted the shoebox again. 

“Stop!” Adam snapped. 

Kavinsky tilted his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the road, “What are you, Parrish, a girl? Can you make up your fucking mind already? If you don’t want them, they’re trash to me.” 

“Fuck you,” Adam said, forcefully, “You’re—you—you don’t know what it’s like—you’re just throwing away stuff that would take me a year to save up for!” 

“And?” Kavinsky drawled. The wind thumped through the car. 

“You don’t even think about it, do you?” Adam said, sick. 

“Why would I?” Kavinsky asked, leaving the shoebox on his lap and wrapping his other hand around the steering wheel, “You think Dicky thinks about money like you do? You think maybe Lynch does? They’re just pretending to.” 

Adam glared at him. 

“It’s your choice,” Kavinsky patted the remaining phones. 

Adam’s stomach flipped, but he snatched the shoebox from his lap and flipped through them. He found a blocky pink Nokia which would probably survive Adam’s rough life, “You’re a bastard.” 

“That I am,” Kavinsky said, agreeably, and the Mitsubishi purred as he sped up. 

*

Then, by the turn of a road, an informal racetrack was revealed, like a magician snatching away a cloth. It was one of those long, lonely Virginia roads, straight and wide from one horizon to the other. If Adam didn’t know better, he might think it wrapped all the way around the globe, like a seam on the whole world. This one was broken and bisected by roads, like a network of veins. 

The Mitsubishi roared and slowed down reluctantly. A small gaggle of drunk or getting drunk raven boys hung around what was presumably the starting line. Adam was surprised at how close they came up the Mitsubishi, how little fear they had of Kavinsky. Kavinsky slammed the horn and they shifted away reluctantly. 

Kavinsky levelled with one side of the road. 

A tall woman walked over to the driver’s side window and wrapped her knuckles against the glass. Kavinsky wound down the window. 

The woman bent down, and Adam realised it was Katenka, her long black hair woven into a tight fishtail that ended in a bright silk ribbon. She gave Adam a little wave. Her nails were a baby blue. 

“Kavinsky!” Katenka said, glancing between Adam and him, “Имате ли любовник?” 

“още не,” Kavinsky said, a smile gracing his sharp features. 

It was the first time Adam had heard him speak his mother tongue. He had expected to be able to hear the change in accent, something with softer syllables or harder vowels, but the words rolled out in the same easy drawl they always did. 

Katenka laughed, “добър късмет!” She pushed away from the car, waving her arms at something behind her. 

Adam turned. A pea-green car rolled up next to them. He recognised the driver, a short, round-faced young man with flat bleach-blonde hair and a rattling of cartilage piercings. It was Swan, if Adam remembered correctly. Swan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. 

“Hey, should I get out?” Adam asked. 

Kavinsky was straightening a line of coke on the dashboard. He took it in one long sniff and gasped, before glancing at Adam, “Getting cold feet?” 

“No,” Adam said, “But my weight will slow you down. You should probably take all the trash out of the backseat too, and maybe the seats themselves.” 

Kavinsky laughed, “You are cute, Adam.”

Adam felt his cheeks heat. He sat down further in his chair, crossing his arms. In the next car over, Swan tossed his empty beer bottle behind them and it shattered like a gunshot. Both cars were rumbling and rumbling, almost impatiently. 

Katenka walked between the cars, her leather skirt reflecting the headlights. She lifted a flag. It fluttered gently. 

Kavinsky gripped the steering wheel tight, tight. His whole body was taut, like a greyhound behind the line. He ground his teeth together. 

Katenka dropped the flag. 

Before Adam had even registered the drop, the car lurched forwards. His head slammed into the headrest. It felt like he’d left his stomach behind. 

Kavinsky drove fast. 

Adam had never been on a plane before, but he imagined this was how it was right as it was taking off. The rush of gravity, the press of the world as they burst through it—fast, fast, faster than anything had a right to be. It was like being shot out of a gun. 

Kavinsky screeched around the corners, so hard that Adam slammed into the doorframe. His stomach turned and turned. Then suddenly, they were driving forward again. The world thundered around them. It felt like they had left the ground. 

“How many laps?” Adam shouted. 

Kavinsky only grinned, slamming the gear shift around. The speed fluctuated slightly, ebbing and flowing randomly, sinking slightly behind only to have a second wind and burst ahead again. But it always fast, fast enough to feel it in the base of his stomach. 

This was Kavinsky in his element—dark and beautiful, the whole world split open just for him. Kavinsky was a shot in the night, a passing comet. 

Kavinsky turned again, and Adam gripped the seat so hard he could feel his joints squeaking. 

Adam felt like he was floating somehow, like he was being torn apart. He knew it would only take a twitch of the wheel, or of Swan’s wheel, and they would crash together, a fiery, sudden death. Adam felt powerful. For the first time in a long time—he felt alive. 

It was a frightening, terrible feeling. It was like giddy nervousness that he felt standing over a ledge. It was queasy and shivery. It flowed through all of him, like liquid fire. 

Another turn. The track was invisible to him, the whole world was just him and Kavinsky, him and Kavinsky’s black eyes and sharp teeth. Another turn. 

Adam gripped the sides of the car, his heart battering his ribs. 

Then, out of nowhere, Kavinsky was slowing, the Mitsubishi bridling obediently to a stop, and Kavinsky was talking: “See. Told you I’d win the fucking thing.” 

Adam’s insides were scrambled. It felt strange to be breathing. He felt awake, wide awake. Adam’s mouth opened. It felt like he needed to say something, but he’d forgotten how to speak. 

“Something wrong, Parrish?” Kavinsky asked, his dark eyes fixing on Adam’s sick, flushed face, “You ain’t about to puke in my car?”

Adam surged forward and kissed him. 

Kavinsky was surprised, halfway through jerking back. Adam unbuckled himself and climbed over, kissing and kissing. Adam had never kissed anyone before, but he seemed to be doing the right thing. Kavinsky cradled the back of his head. 

How else could be explain it? Adam needed to kiss him. He needed to express a fraction of the gratitude he felt burning inside him. For the first time in years and years, he was finally awake, finally aware. Adrenaline had shaken the heavy fatigue which had clung to him since he’d been born. He felt light, like he was about to float away. 

Then he remembered himself. Adam broke away, mortified, and scrambled back to his seat. 

“Sorry,” He said, his voice coming out full Henrietta-drawl, “I don’ usually do that.” 

Kavinsky watched him, dark-eyed, for a long moment, “I have that effect on people.” 

Adam could believe it. His skin prickled. 

“K!” A voice bellowed. 

Kavinsky finally released Adam from his gaze, and instead leaned out of his window. Swan fixed him with a sharp look. 

“You’re a scumbag,” Swan said, and made it come out sound endearing, “How’d you beat me in a fucking Mistu?” 

Kavinsky snagged a squashed coke can from car’s floor and tossed it at Swan’s car. It left a short scratch on the green paint job. 

“You fucker!” Swan howled, “This is new!” 

“It’s a fucking faggy Grinch-mobile,” Kavinsky snarled back and pressed the accelerator, leaving Swan and the gathered Raven Boys behind. He glanced at Adam, “Want me to drive you home, sweetheart?” 

Adam thought hard. He could get Kavinsky to drop him off outside of the trailer park. And honestly, Kavinsky in his loose tank top and tacky car would be a lot more inconspicuous than Gansey in his suits and Camaro. 

“Only if you drive fast,” Adam said. 

*

Adam’s life started to be like this, equal parts: Work, school, chores, Gansey/Kavinsky. And currently, Kavinsky was winning out in that quatre. 

This, Adam felt terrible about. He felt like he was ditching Gansey for a new friend, tossing him to the wayside as soon as something better came along. It didn’t help that Gansey thought he was taking more shifts—therefore Adam needed more money—therefore something bad had happened that Adam wouldn’t tell him. 

Gansey knew better to ask, but Adam could see it playing out across his bright, open face whenever he turned him down. Gansey was thinking something like; Adam’s tuition has gone up and I don’t know about it. Adam’s parents are taking a bigger cut. Adam is sick and not telling me. It was breaking Adam’s heart. 

It was selfish. Adam knew it was. But hanging out with Gansey, although he loved him dearly, was often a lot like being in a study hall, at a slow day in the factory, doing admin at Boyd’s. It was sitting in the quiet and pouring over documents or talking or talking and eating. 

Being with Kavinsky was—well, different. It was driving too fast. It was swimming in an icy lake. It was taking mysterious pills, it was letting Kavinsky put his teeth on Adam’s neck. It was stupid, yes, and selfish, yes, and irresponsible. It was very un-Adam Parrish. 

But it was addictive. His whole life was built around self-control, his willpower formed a shackle around his actions. Every instinct, defensive or otherwise, was shackled down. Every month, every day at Aglionby he had been working to a regimented clock, and he had never stepped out of line. His evenings with Gansey were the only exception to that—and even that came with a massive amount of readings and artefacts to memorise to match Gansey’s level of knowledge. 

With Kavinsky he tasted the real world. He felt, for a few hours, what it was like to slip the leash. Kavinsky had a talent for making him feel like time wasn’t passing, that they had forever, and that nothing was permanent, nothing would leave a mark. 

Kavinsky demanded all attention. It was like approaching a venomous snake. Adam couldn’t think about his father, or the shift he had to do the next day, or the homework he had left to complete. He couldn’t take his eyes off Kavinsky, because it felt like if his attention wavered, he would be bitten and drained dry. 

*

They were in Monmouth Manufacturing, pouring over some maps of ley lines with Blue, when his phone rang. 

Adam wanted to go back in time and strangle his past self. He had been so, so, so careful to turn it off and hide it in a sock in the bottom of his bag, but he had started to use it as an alarm when his mechanical alarm broke, and he’d forgotten to set it to silent again. 

The phone rang again. 

Blue picked up his bag by the strap, “It’s this one.” 

Adam hid his wince, “Thanks.” He pulled the bag towards him and fumbled through it for the flip phone. He pulled it out of the sock it was hidden in and cancelled the call, turning the phone off entirely. It had been Skov, although what he wanted, Adam had no clue. 

“You got a phone?” Gansey asked, voice very careful. 

“Y-yeah,” Adam wanted to snap the phone in half, but instead pushed it back down, “The other day… it’s second hand. I don’t use it much.” 

“That’s,” Gansey tried hard, “good. We should exchange numbers.” 

“Of course,” Adam said. He fixed Gansey with what he hoped was a genuine smile. He tried to say I’m Sorry with his expression, because if he said it aloud Gansey would have to deny being hurt at all. 

“Second hand, huh,” Noah asked, leaning over the back of the sofa, “Did your girlfriend give it to you?” 

Ronan straightened up, suddenly interested in the conversation, “Well that explains the hickeys.” 

Adam covered the corner of his jaw. Damn. He had thought Kavinsky wouldn’t leave marks, but that was asking too much. 

“Oh, those are hickeys?” Gansey said, sounding relieved, “I thought they were just regular bruises.” 

“You have a girlfriend?” Blue asked, her eyes shining. She was a gossip. 

“Yes,” Adam said, reluctantly. He didn’t want to mention a partner at all, but it looked like he had no choice. 

“You should invite her around next time,” Gansey said. He seemed genuinely excited. Gansey loved meeting new people, and he loved people loving his friends—he probably thought Adam’s “girlfriend” would be an important ally in the Fix Parrish’s Life crusade. Adam wished, suddenly, that he did have a girlfriend, someone sweet like Blue or alluring like Katenka, someone he could show Gansey and say ‘Yes, I’m normal.’

“Sorry,” Adam scratched the back of his neck, “I don’t think she’d like this sort of stuff.” 

“You should try anyway,” Gansey insisted, “Take some of the print-outs with you when you see her next. I mean, Ronan didn’t seem like the type at first, either.” 

Ronan loved Gansey, that was why he loved working on Glendower. It wasn’t the other way around. But still, Adam took the thick wad of papers and tucked them into his bag, promising to show them to his girlfriend. 

*

Kavinsky picked over the papers while Adam did his homework in the back seat. The Mitsubishi was on stand-by, enough to keep the engine ticking over and the a/c working. 

“Glendower,” Kavinsky rolled the word around his mouth. 

Adam glanced up. 

“What does Dicky think this guy will give him?” Kavinsky asked, “And why him?” 

“Because Gansey will wake him up,” Adam said, because he only knew one of the answers for sure. 

“If some poncey prick woke me up after a few hundred years,” Kavinsky said, “I’d fucking kill him. Especially if he was an American.” 

Adam made a non-committal noise. He’d thought the same thing a few times. 

“Still if Dick’s looking on the ley line, he’s probably looking in the right places,” Kavinsky said. 

“Ley lines?” Adam frowned, “I didn’t give you anything about ley lines.” 

Kavinsky hummed, looking wolfish and happy. He tossed the papers onto the passenger seat. “It ain’t a secret, baby,” Kavinsky said, “I’m more than just an expert in the cruel and unusual.” 

“The supernatural?” Adam asked, “How much do you know? Anything we can use in the hunt?” 

“I know hunting for this dead fuck is useless,” Kavinsky said, “You don’t get something for nothing. No point chasing genies from the fifteenth-century.” 

Adam paused, “You have something that didn’t come out of a fortune cookie?” 

Kavinsky pulled the hand break and climbed around the car so he could reach back and cup Adam’s chin. It rested in the palm of his hand. Adam swallowed. It had taken a while to get used to touches like this, casual and whatever passed for gentle. 

Kavinsky kissed him. He kissed insistently, like he was asking something. “I can tell Lynch will be eaten alive,” Kavinsky said, “You’ll be chewed up, and this’ll crack Dick open like a fucking egg.” 

Adam leaned back, moving his backpack so Kavinsky could climb into the back with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> tw: single use of homophobic slur
> 
> Hope this doesn't need to be said, but just for a measure--I'm not trying to write an anti-drug piece but I'm also not trying to glorify them. One of the reasons drugs are so pervasive despite the harsh penalties is that they're fun... but they're also bad for you. And: Doing ketamine with your boyfriend in his white mitsubishi doesn't count as self care :( ✧✧✧


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw at the end

Kavinsky rolled the filter paper, his fingers neat and practiced. The marijuana looked fine and herby, only a little escaped onto the table. Kavinsky turned the spliff over, twisting the paper, before he touched the seam, very gently, to the tip of his tongue.

Adam watched him light it. A small, cherry ember glowed in the gloom.

“Take it easy,” Kavinsky put the spliff between Adam’s fingers, “It ain’t a fucking cigarillo. Breathe slow.”

Adam put it to his lips, and he pulled, gently. The smoke rolled into his mouth hot and itchy. He coughed.

Kavinsky found that amusing. His white sunglasses reflected him. Kavinsky pulled himself back onto the couch, legs strewn over the sides. Adam took another drag. He could feel his shoulders untensing, the heavy cloud dissipating.

“I want to show you something, Parrish,” Kavinsky wrapped a tight strip of plastic around his bicep and slapped the pale underside of his forearm.

“I’ve seen you shoot up before,” Adam said, scratching his hairline. He enjoyed how the weed made him feel, relaxed and docile.

“Not like this, Parrish,” Kavinsky pushed the needle into his vein and pushed down the plunger, “This is beyond anything you’ve ever fucking seen.”

Adam watched Kavinsky breathe. There was something about him that was drawn out, thin as a needle. Kavinsky took a swig of whiskey. He drank it as if it didn’t taste of anything.

“Are you really drinking right after you shot up?” Adam said, “You’re gonna die.”

“Dying is a boring side effect,” Kavinsky leaned back, eyes closed. He still, his breathing evening out and slowing. Behind his gaudy sunglasses, even his frown eased. Adam watched him, sucking the spliff.

Kavinsky surged upwards, holding something small and metallic in his hands. He tossed it at Adam, who caught it.

“What’s this?” Adam asked. It was about the size and shape of an oversized bullet, very pale silver, with interlocking notches on every side. In his hands, he felt it move, twist to one side, and unfold delicate dragonfly wings. It lifted off his hand.

The bullet-fly snaked through the air, darting and ducking around the smoke. It flew soundlessly, wings spinning around itself.

“I made it,” Kavinsky said, “It came from my head.”

Adam watched it fly, “No, really, where?”

“I fucking made it, Parrish,” Kavinsky growled.

Adam frowned, “How?”

“My dreams,” Kavinsky said, “I can pull things out. Whatever I want.”

“Prove it,” Adam said, “Get me… Get me Moby Dick.”

“I’m not bringing a fucking sixteen-tonne whale into here,” Kavinsky hissed, leaning forward.

“The book, dumbass,” Adam snapped.

Kavinsky flopped back on the couch. He threw an arm over his eyes and went still. If it was possible to be tense while your muscles were relaxed, that was what Kavinsky looked when he forced himself to sleep. He was still as a hunting cat.

Then Kavinsky lunged upwards and threw a book at him.

Adam only just managed to catch it before it smacked him in the forehead. He turned over the thick book. Moby Dick stared back of him, with a silky cursive that named him, Adam Parrish, as the author. He cracked it open to find blank white pages all the way through.

“I haven’t read it,” Kavinsky said and sighed, stretching farther back onto the sofa.

“Wow,” Adam flipped through the crisp white paper. Pure admiration flowed through him, “That—that’s incredible, Kavinsky.”

“I’m a god,” Kavinsky said, eyes sliding shut.

*

Adam fought to keep everything balanced. It felt sometimes like he was trying to keep five plates spinning at once. But it had been like that his whole life—every working part of his life nudged every other part—he would be forced to take on more shifts when his co-workers were sick, and his grades would slip; he lingered too long at Monmouth Manufacturing and caught hell when he got home.

Still, he thought he could make it. He turned down Kavinsky for a week, even cancelling some shifts to free up time to hang out with Gansey and the rest of his friends. They even went on a helicopter ride with Gansey’s sister. Gansey rewarded him with a shy grin, even Ronan seemed to appreciate his attentions. Adam was thrilled to know he wasn’t losing them completely. And when he returned to Kavinsky, the dangerous boy didn’t seem to mind the absence.

For a glorious week, Adam worked and worked. He thought he could keep it all running parallel. He really thought that.

*

Adam lay on his back in the cool, wet grass, his legs bent awkwardly. He stared up at the black night, the studded stars.

His head hurt so much he found it hard to understand it. It felt like the pain was taking over, Adam only knew it came from his skull from the memory of the blow. It was white and hot.

Adam had been late coming home for the third night that week. His father had taken him by the hair and cracked his temple against the plastic-coated work surface. And now Adam was outside the locked trailer, his head in the grass, the world spinning.

He knew he should peel himself from the grass and hide. There were places he went when his parents locked him out of the trailer—an abandoned tool shed a quatre of a mile away, a soft patch of earth. But he was tired. He didn’t want to sleep in the wet and cold, he didn’t want to come up with an excuse as to why his uniform was muddy, he was exhausted of shrinking and hiding.

Adam knew there was a phone in his pocket, it shifted against his thigh when he moved his legs. Moving slowly to avoid jostling his head, he pulled it out.

Gansey immediately floated to the front of his mind. This was a main reason why he didn’t want a phone in the first place—because he would be calling and calling Gansey and Ronan—he would crumble and accept their help and find himself demanding more. He could see himself slicing away at their time, demanding their energy and free hours.

Adam squeezed his eyes shut. Gansey would come if he called. Gansey would drop everything and bound to his car. Gansey would imagine him bleeding into the grass, his skull battered. Which Adam was currently doing.

But Adam didn’t want Gansey’s half-hidden, pained looks. He didn’t want to pile onto Gansey’s worry, take up space in Gansey’s head. A boy like Gansey should be thinking about girls and grades, not worrying about his fuck-up trailer trash friend.

Adam dialled Kavinsky.

“ _Aw, Parrish_ ,” Kavinsky answered, “ _You getting lonely in your bed, thinking of me?”_

“Kavinsky,” Adam breathed. His voice cracked.

“ _You calling from your death bed?”_ Kavinsky drawled, “ _That’s kinky but I’ll take it._ ”

“Come pick me up. I’m at home,” Adam said, and then: “I miss you.”

“ _What am I, your damn chauffeur?”_

“Among other things,” Adam sighed.

“ _You’re lucky you’re cute_ ,” Kavinsky said, and hung up.

*

Adam watched the dark world pass the window. He kept two hands on the side of his head to keep it from moving too much. Putting pressure on it seemed to stop it from hurting so much.

Kavinsky drove. His eyes were hidden by the large sunglasses, but he didn’t seem to find Adam’s busted forehead the least bit interesting. He had only waited for Adam to climb into the car and set off. Kavinsky was in a strange mood—but, Adam reasoned—he’d never seen him in a normal one.

Still, Adam was glad Kavinsky drove slowly.

Streetlights poured over the car as they passed, like driving through streams of light. They hurt Adam’s eyes. He rubbed his battered scalp. Kavinsky turned the car slowly, ever smooth, his shoulders back and taut.

“Is it true you tried to kill your dad?” Adam asked.

Kavinsky shifted his grip on the steering wheel. It was the time of night where everything in the world looked exactly the same. His expression didn’t change, “Where’d you hear that?”

“Gansey,” Adam said, although he was sure that Kavinsky already knew that, “Ronan.”

Kavinsky clicked his tongue, “It’s complicated.”

“Tell me,” Adam asked.

Kavinsky rolled his shoulders, “Not here, Parrish. It ain’t exactly a fucking fairy tale.”

It wasn’t a no. Adam studied him in the half-light for a long time. The road rolled on and on.

*

Kavinsky made himself eggs while Adam pressed his face into a pack of frozen peas. Kavinsky’s house was huge and cavernous, every surface carved from sleek black granite in razor-sharp angles. Kavinsky walked around barefoot, only turning on lights as he needed them. It gave the impression of living inside a great black crystal.

Adam finally lay down in Kavinsky’s double bed.

Blue light filtered through the high window, tracing across the anonymous shapes of the dark room. Black sheets, black covers. Adam was surprised to see there wasn’t any books or computers or phones, the walls were empty of posters or photographs. The whole room was still and cold.

The mattress dipped as Kavinsky lay next to him.

The pounding in Adam’s head had receded to an irritating thump. He knew he still wouldn’t be able to sleep. And Kavinsky didn’t plan to either.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Adam said, finally, “I don’t want to make you.”

Kavinsky laughed, “You can’t fucking make me do anything.”

Adam leaned back, trying to push the throbbing from his head. The room was oddly calming, the utter blackness of it.

“I killed him,” Kavinsky said, “That’s the truth of it.”

Adam didn’t say that Kavinsky’s father was still around. Didn’t say that there was a photograph of him in the paper only last week, talking to the mayor. Instead he said, “How old were you?”

“Ain’t sure,” Kavinsky said, “Ten? It was two years after he started treating me like shit. Anyway, after he finished with me one night, I crawled away and took the gun from where he’d hidden it and I shot the bastard. Point blank, through a pillow.”

“Jesus,” Adam said.

“I know,” Kavinsky said, sounding oddly proud, “I’ve always had balls of steel.”

It seemed like a delicate moment. Adam asked, breathless, “Then what happened?”

“What happened was I was fucking ten years old,” Kavinsky said, “I was in a mansion in Jersey with only a week’s worth of easy food and I couldn’t exactly cook. Fuck, I tried. But I didn’t speak a damn lick of English, I didn’t know nobody.”

Adam rolled onto his side, pressing his palm to his temple. He watched Kavinsky’s profile, picked out in moonlight blue.

“People were banging on the door, day and night, phone always ringing,” Kavinsky said, “Creditors and lawyers and social services. Members of the family, maybe, or people who worked with my father. And I couldn’t turn them away, so I just locked all the doors and pulled the cord of the phone out. My dad was fucking decomposing.”

Adam crept closer.

“So I brought him back,” Kavinsky only breathed, his dark eyes fixed on the ceiling. His whole body was tense. It looked like he was about to pounce or come apart.

“What?” Adam blurted out.

Kavinsky turned and looked at him. The look in his eyes—it was unspeakable. It was wolfish and ruthless. Kavinsky looked like he was about to devour him.

“Come here,” Kavinsky said, snatching Adam’s wrist, “Come here, Parrish.”

Adam let Kavinsky drag him closer, “What do you mean, brought him back? How could he come back?”

Kavinsky dragged Adam’s leg over his own, so the boy straddled him. Adam’s hips against his own, radiating warmth through his clothes. Adam loomed above him. Kavinsky’s eyes were dark and he held Adam’s wrists near his head.

“I mean I brought him back,” Kavinsky said, dully, “I mean I went into the dream and took him out.”

Adam looked down at him, desperate.

“I tried to bring back a better version,” Kavinsky said, “But none of them worked. The first was ugly and stupid, more animal than man. I had to shoot it. The second was nice but too young—he’s Prokopenko now. Too young, but he looks just like my dear daddy.”

Adam said nothing.

“It had been a month without food,” Kavinsky said, “I had lost half my weight, maybe more. I was almost too tired to dream; I could hardly hold onto it. I thought I was going to die. But when I dreamed, I conjured him, perfect. And I pulled him out with me.”

Adam hardly dared to breathe.

It felt like the world was closing in. The walls were too tight. Adam’s ribs hurt, dull and heavy, like an old wound. He wanted to do something, but he didn’t know what. He could only sit there above him, pain in his chest.

“You get it now, right?” Kavinsky said.

Adam was too dazed to react as Kavinsky lifted his limp hands to his throat. Kavinsky folded Adam’s fingers around the long white column of Kavinsky’s throat. Adam squeezed his fingers, despite himself, and felt Kavinsky’s flesh was warm and yielding.

“Everything that happened since then,” Kavinsky purred, “ _I've been doing it to myself_.”

Adam snatched his hands away and scrambled away, kicking the covers. His heart was hammering, and he felt flushed with cold. His head span. He felt sick. He felt rotten.

Kavinsky rolled over to watch him. His eyes were black. Where his shirt had ridden up, Adam could see the bite scar just above his hip.

*

“Well,” Gansey set his fork down on his empty plate, “That was perhaps the best restaurant-made macaroni and cheese I’ve ever had the pleasure of dining on.”

“It's not restaurant-made,” Blue said. She leaned her weight on one hand while the other held a circular tray under her arm. Her spiked-black hair had been recently cut, so that it only reached the tops of her ears rather than the corner of her chin.

“What was that, Jane?” Gansey asked, glancing up.

Adam had no idea why Blue allowed the nickname. If Gansey had decided Adam’s name was too normal among the Laurences and Aberforths of Aglionby and instead tried to call Adam “Baldwin” or “Clarence” Adam would have had a few choice words for him. But Blue seemed to allow Gansey more leniency than she did anyone else.

“I’m saying it’s not restaurant-made,” Blue said. The creases in her starched uniform were awkward and bunched up as she moved, “We don’t make it in-house.”

“Well then how does it get here?” Gansey asked, mystified.

“It arrives in little thin plastic packets,” Blue mimed bouncing a small invisible packet, “Then we drop it in boiling water for five minutes and pour them onto plates. That’s why you got your order so quickly.”

“They do the same thing in the Olive Garden,” Adam supplied.

“Who makes it then?” Gansey asked.

“Factory,” Blue waved a hand, “Something like that.”

“Tell me you make the iced tea here,” Gansey said.

“Oh that,” Ronan interjected, “They don’t have to make it at all. They’ve got a pipeline from the toilets back to the kitchen.”

Noah laughed. Blue nodded, “It’s all very eco-friendly.”

“Low carbon footprint,” Adam added, approvingly.

“It’s not that bad,” Gansey protested, weakly. It was no secret that the iced tea was an absolute favourite of his.

“Hey, Blue,” Noah said, “You said you could amplify powers. Would it be enough to use bone wagers or something to locate special areas in the line?”

Bone wagers were a special kind of splintered hawk bone which were said to be able to detect spiritual readings. Bones on hot coals were dosed in icy water and the way they splintered was said to be indicative of an area’s energy levels. Adam didn’t know much about them; they weren’t a common method much anymore. Probably because hawk bones were hard to come by.

“Probably not,” Blue said, “I don’t think it works on things. Just people. I guess if you had a psychic who specialised in them, maybe, but I’m not a lucky charm.”

“That’s a shame,” Adam said, “I was thinking of entering the lottery. Do you think I could get a reading for that?”

“If it worked like that do you think I’d be doing shifts here?” Blue asked, raising a dark eyebrow.

Ronan straightened his back suddenly, like he’d heard something no one else had. When he moved like that, the rest of the group fell silent, like a shadow had passed overhead. The easy banter halted.

“What is it?” Blue asked, setting the tray down again. She glanced around and her homemade earrings clinked together as her head moved.

Gansey put a hand over her hand, “Don’t make it too obvious. There’s a dangerous kind of guy around.”

Blue looked at him, “What, like a hit man?”

“Kavinsky,” Noah said, looking around Blue’s side. Noah’s head was low to the table and his arms were drawn close.

Adam saw him too. Kavinsky sat with Skov and Prokopenko, talking to another waiter. They didn’t seem to have seen them yet, but Kavinsky probably knew they were there. The Camaro was parked in the car park, after all.

“Should I know who that is?” Blue asked.

“You don’t want to, Jane,” Gansey said, “He’s all anyone talks about at Aglionby. Nobody wants to get on his bad side.”

“What, so he’s your classmate?” Blue asked. She pulled her hand out from under Gansey and glanced around, watching Kavinsky surreptitiously.

“He’s bad news,” Gansey said, darkly, “He’s at Aglionby when he can be bothered, but most of the time he’s dealing drugs or racing. Kavinsky is a thug and all his friends are just as bad.”

“You’re being a little dramatic, Gansey,” Adam said, “He’s not the devil.”

“He may as well be,” Gansey said. He looked irritated.

Adam rolled his eyes, “Kavinsky’s hardly worse than Ronan.” Ronan enjoyed that comment and shot Adam a mean smile. Adam ignored him and continued, “Look at it from someone else’s perspective. What’s the difference between Lynch and him?”

“The difference between Ronan and Kavinsky,” Gansey said, “is that Ronan matters.”

Adam stared at him. He felt slightly dazed and itched his palms. He could still remember what it felt like to have Kavinsky’s flesh under his hands, to squeeze his long throat. The conversation continued on around him, but Adam only sat there and thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
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> tw: discussion (still not graphic) of child abuse
> 
> \-- 
> 
> I've actually just finished writing this fic, so I thought I should post the next chapter in celebration. I will still probably write an epilogue, but I haven't decided if i I will upload it as a seperate fic and make this a series, or whether I will just tack it onto the end of this one. There is actually a very subtle piece of forshadowing in this chapter, very blink-and-you'll-miss-it stuff ;) Anyway, enjoy your friday


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the chapter where it all hits the fan 
> 
> tw in end notes (very spoilery)

Soft music played. Adam’s back was against hard, cold floor and he was breathing in warm smoke and the smell of cider. Kavinsky was on him, the warmth of his body almost feverish. He couldn’t stop moving, pawing at Adam’s sides. Kisses burned like brands into Adam’s neck.

“We should fuck,” Kavinsky said into the side of Adam’s neck.

Adam knotted his fingers in Kavinsky’s hair to pull his teeth away from his jugular. He had no idea if he wanted to have sex or not—he’d never tried it before and the pills he’d taken made his brain fizzy and empty. He kept his fingers in Kavinsky’s hair as the boy attacked his collar bone.

“Do you wanna?” Adam asked. Only a sliver of his brain was left for normal conversation.

“I want whatever you want,” Kavinsky purred, a hollow edge to his voice, “You’ve earned it, Parrish.”

Adam was silent for a moment, just blinking. _You’ve earned it, Parrish_. Kavinsky hooked his fingers into the belt loops to drag their hips together.

“Do you actually want to?” Adam asked. He couldn’t connect the two thoughts together. His mind was clumsy and words took effort to force out.

“Consent is overrated,” Kavinsky muttered, “Some nights, you should just take it.”

Adam shook his muddled head, trying to clear his thoughts. His eyes hurt. Kavinsky was working on his zipper with his thin fingers. Adam pressed his hand over Kavinsky’s and knotted their fingers together, pulling him closer. With a roll of his hips, he flipped them over, so he sat on Kavinsky’s long hips. Kavinsky stared up at him, mouth parted.

“No,” Adam said, knotting his fingers back into Kavinsky’s hair.

“No?” Kavinsky asked. His expression was unreadable. Every part of him was still.

Adam kissed his neck, “I’m waiting ’til marriage.” Kavinsky’s face cracked into a grin.

*

“Damn,” Gansey said from the driver’s seat.

“What is it?” Blue asked. She sat in the back with Adam, her maths textbook open on her lap. Adam had been going over her algebra homework.

“They’ve blocked the whole road,” Gansey muttered darkly.

As the Camaro approached, Adam saw that he was right. A dozen cars were clustered together across the breadth of the road, surrounding a large, crackling fire. Embers swept upwards into the pale evening. Electronic music pounded the earth.

Gansey slowed to a reluctant stop.

“Could you go off-road?” Blue asked, “Go around them?”

“Not likely,” Noah said. He sat between Adam and Blue, his cold sides made him feel like Adam was sitting next to an open refrigerator, “the pig can hardly handle normal road conditions.”

Gansey huffed a sigh, “I’ll have to make a U-turn.”

Someone knocked on the window and they all turned. Skov leaned down to look through the window, the long tail of his braid swinging. He grinned at Adam and cast an impassive look over the rest of them.

“Can I help you?” Gansey asked, rolling down the window. He wrinkled his nose at Skov, like the other boy was something shrivelled and decaying.

Skov only smiled and pushed away from the car, returning to the group.

“The Russian’s here,” Ronan said.

“Bulgarian,” Adam correct quietly.

“What?” Ronan glanced back at him.

“You’re off by about 3,000 miles,” Adam said, “Kavinsky’s Bulgarian, not Russian.”

“Same thing,” Ronan turned back around, propping his feet up on the dashboard. Gansey smacked his muddy feet away from him.

Someone broke away from the crowd and approached, backlit by the bonfire. His hair glowed gold in the firelight. The music track had changed, and the squeal of electric guitars made Adam’s hair stand on end.

“What now?” Blue asked.

Kavinsky reached the window, all his weight on one hip.

“What the fuck do you want, Kavinsky?” Ronan asked.

“Nothing from you,” Kavinsky slapped the top of the Camaro, “I wanted to talk to my squeeze.”

Adam straightened up, “Later, Kavinsky.”

“Adam has a girlfriend,” Gansey said, sharply.

“Oh my,” Kavinsky leaned through the window, “You told them I was the girl in the relationship?”

Adam could have strangled him. This wasn’t how he’d wanted everyone to find out. He stuffed his textbooks into his bag and zipped it up quickly, refusing to meet Kavinsky’s eyes.

“What?” Ronan asked. He glanced between Adam and Kavinsky, amusement lighting Lynch’s features.

“You sure you got the right guy?” Noah asked.

Gansey turned up his nose at Kavinsky, eyes narrowed, “Are you _high?”_

“Jealous, Dick,” Kavinsky hummed, “Because your perfect golden boy will spread his legs for me but not you? My, my, Richard, that’s a little _gauche,_ don’t you think?”

Gansey spluttered, “You’re lying.”

Adam couldn’t take any more of this. He snatched his bag up and threw the door open. Night air rushed in, thick with the smell of fire. He slammed the door after him, adjusting his bag on his shoulder.

“Adam!” Gansey called after him. He sounded desperate.

“Later, motherfuckers,” Kavinsky grinned that Cheshire cat grin and abandoned them. Adam didn’t look back but he knew when Kavinsky grabbed his hips and pulled them against him, it was deliberately to piss Gansey off.

*

The Camaro hung around the edges of the party for a full hour before it turned around and drove off. Adam spent that time smoking pot on the roof of Prokopenko’s car and enjoying the heady, luxurious heat the fire threw off.

He felt guilty when the Pig drove off. But every time he thought about climbing off the car and going back, Gansey’s voice chimed in his head like a bell: _The difference between Ronan and Kavinsky is that Ronan matters._ And if Kavinsky didn’t matter—Kavinsky who was handsome, rich, witty, and by the school’s record very academically gifted—where did that leave Adam? They were as fucked up as each other, two useless, dead-eyed battered children.

Someone wrapped their knuckles on the bonnet. Adam took his time turning around. His body felt like it was under a heavy, warm blanket.

Jiang climbed onto the roof with him. Jiang was the most striking of Kavinsky’s gang, not least because of the scar that split his left cheek in two. He had a round, apple-shaped face, wide, flat cheekbones and a set of eyes even darker than Kavinsky’s.

“I know that must be rough,” Jiang said, in lieu of Hello. He ran the back of his hand over his mouth.

Adam sighed and stretched out on the car. Of all of Kavinsky’s friends, Jiang was the one he thought Gansey might actually like, if he gave him the chance. Jiang was quiet in a way that made people want to listen to him when he did end up speaking. Well, Gansey would like Prokopenko too because he liked positive people, but Ronan would find Penko obnoxious for the same reason. Blue would like Jiang too, because Jiang spoke six languages and that was the sort of thing Blue found interesting.

Adam watched him expectantly and Jiang dropped a packet of white and blue pills on the car roof. Adam picked over them.

“These are extra-light,” Jiang said, “Still, be careful.”

“Or what?” Adam asked, “I’ll end up like Kavinsky?”

“Ah, Kavinsky,” Jiang leaned back, “No, Kavinsky doesn’t have much choice. You’ve got a long way to go before you end up like him.”

Adam pressed a white pill to his tongue and let it dissolve. It tasted chalky and sour. “Is he getting worse?”

Jiang watched the crowd. Kavinsky was fighting with Skov, throwing blows wide and open. Kavinsky liked to fight, his ever-present knife-slash grin, his bloody knuckles. Skov threw himself into Kavinsky’s skinny middle and Kavinsky barely managed to keep his feet under him, scrambling on the wet earth.

“Actually,” Jiang said, “Kavinsky is better now than I’ve ever seen him. He seems happy.”

*

Late that evening, Prokopenko drove him around the track. Adam watched the digital clock blinking in the almost-night.

“It’s late,” Adam said. Then he said, rolling his head back, “I don’t want to go home.”

Prokopenko took a corner, hand passing over hand. He looked like Kavinsky, Adam thought. The same sharp jaw, the same thick dark eyebrows, the same slanted, laughing mouth. Prokopenko’s hair was paler than Kavinsky’s and curled at the back of his neck. His eyes were a few shades lighter.

“So don’t,” Prokopenko said. Adam watched him, silently.

*

Adam sat in class, feeling Gansey’s eyes burn into the back of his head.

They had talked since the night he’d walked out of the Camaro. But they hadn’t discussed it. Adam didn’t know what to say to him and Gansey didn’t know either. So instead they circled around it, and the heavy weight of it hanging over their quick text conversations and irrelevant conversations over lunch hour.

The teacher moved through the rows of chairs, holding a thick stack of marked papers against her floral print dress. The dark hem of her dress brushed Adam’s leg as she passed. She dropped his paper back on his desk.

Adam turned over.

B-. He ran a hand through his hair. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t an A+ he wanted. Still, he was hardly surprised. He’d spent the night before the exam sleepless and smoking with Kavinsky. The bell rang a few minutes later, and Adam stuffed the paper into his bag, leaving before Gansey could catch up with him.

*

The night Adam Parrish’s life unravelled came that Thursday.

He was washing the windows in Boyd’s. It had been a surprisingly busy day, appointments overrunning, and new ones squeezed in between them. It meant that the chores he usually did between appointments, he had to tack onto the end instead.

Adam was feeling happy and calm. He liked work. He liked the night, cool and crisp, he liked the feeling of a productive day. He was looking forward to the night ahead of him, which he planned to spend wrapped around Kavinsky.

A truck reflected in the window Adam was washing. Adam dropped the sponge back into the bucket and stretched. Kavinsky changed cars like he changed shirts, but he’d never seen him drive a truck.

Then he saw the driver.

Robert Parrish parked the truck. The door swung open.

Adam stood up. He didn’t know if he should try to run. Robert Parrish was like an apparition—Adam had never seen him at the places Adam worked or at Aglionby, ever. It felt wrong that he was here, it felt like the world was splintering.

“Adam,” Robert said, approaching, “What the fuck were you thinking? You’ve not been home in three days, you little sack of shit.”

Adam pressed himself against the glass. He felt the soapy water soak through the back of his shirt.

“You think you can just walk away from us like that?” Robert asked, voice booming, “What the fuck happened to personal responsibility?”

Adam darted to the right, kicking the bucket over. He managed to reach the garage before he felt Robert’s hand close around his wrist. Adam was knocked to the cement floor.

He saw stars.

Robert hit him again, cracking against his jaw, “You think you can just come and fucking go?! You fucking think that?”

Adam raised his arm across his face, but Robert wrenched his arm away and smacked him again. His skull ricocheted against the cement floor. Robert caught him again, a punch to the chest that made his heart stutter.

Adam wriggled free and tried to stand. He couldn’t speak, his head felt like it was mashed. Robert snatched him by the back of the neck and pulled him back down. As Adam hit the ground again, he thought: _Holy fuck. He’s going to kill me._

Robert wrapped a meaty hand around Adam’s neck but Adam wriggled too much for him to latch the other one around him. His windpipe screamed as Robert put his weight onto it. Adam finally managed to get his leg up and kneed his father in the crotch. Robert grunted in pain and loosened his grip enough for Adam to break his hold on his neck.

Adam wasn’t even fully free before Robert had a grip around his bicep, dragging him back down. Panic fired through Adam like a livewire. His heart hammered and his brain screamed. Every part of Adam was alive and terrified, his whole body felt foreign and animal.

His hand closed around a tire iron.

Adam brought it crashing down on Robert’s skull. And again. And again. Robert writhed around him, snatching every part of Adam he could reach, gripping Adam like a vice. Not every hit struck true, Adam could feel it slide off Robert’s body or only glance him. Animal panic took over his brain.

Again, again. Adam smashed the tire iron against Robert’s eye, cracked it against his skull. Blood flicked into Adam’s face as he swung it up again and brought it down. The tire iron was slippery in his hands.

Then, suddenly, Adam came to his senses.

He was hitting dead meat. Robert was limp and heavy on Adam’s lap. His skull was cracked and bloody. Adam pressed his fingers into Robert’s throat and searched around. The flesh was warm and slick. Adam pressed and pressed, skin yielding against him. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Adam pushed his father off him.

Adam’s own head hurt, savagely. Every turn of his head throbbed. It felt like something inside his head was expanding and collapsing rapidly. He couldn’t think. His skin hummed.

Then slowly, he started to shake. He scrambled through his pockets, shaking hard. It felt like Robert was watching him with dull, empty eyes. Adam’s phone nearly jumped out of his hands. He gripped it so tightly the buttons cracked together.

“ _Eager, are we?”_ Kavinsky purred through the line when he answered, “ _What can I do for you, beautiful?”_

*

Kavinsky whistled and lit a cigarette when he saw Robert Parrish’s corpse, “Well, shit, Parrish. I take back everything I ever said about you not having balls.”

Adam leaned heavily against the wall of paint supplies. He held his bloody hands in front of him. His fingers were drying and sticking together. His heart was beating so fast it felt like he was about to keel over. He breathed and breathed, but his lungs had forgotten how to take in oxygen.

Kavinsky pushed his shoe under Robert Parrish’s chin, and tilted the dead man’s head up. It looked like he was admiring the damage Adam had dealt, the dented skull, the bloody eyes.

“I-I,” Adam let out an involuntary whine and he swallowed it down, “I didn’t mean…”

Kavinsky raised a shoulder in a half-shrug and glanced around the empty garage, “Yeah it don’t fucking scream pre-meditated to me.”

“Fuck,” Adam pressed his sticky hands against his head, “Fuck, fuck…”

Kavinsky dropped Robert’s head. He stalked back to his white Mistubishi and returned a moment later with several black bin bags, “You’re lucky. I almost brought Skov with me tonight and he can’t fucking keep his mouth shut.”

Kavinsky picked Robert’s legs and eased them into the bin bag. It only reached Robert’s middle, where Kavinsky taped the plastic to his heavy stomach. He tore apart another bin bag and wrapped it around Robert’s middle.

“What…” Adam peered at him, “What are you doing, Kavinsky?”

“What it looks like,” Kavinsky said, wrapping a torn the bin bag around Robert’s wet head. He taped it tightly, the three pieces stuck together with generous amounts of grey tape. “I don’t think you boss would appreciate Robert rotting here. So, I’ll move it for him. I’m nice like that.”

“We’ll get caught,” Adam protested, numbly. When he took his hands from his head, his hair stuck to his palms.

“Pros of dating a _mutri_ ,” Kavinsky purred, “Nobody catches me.” Kavinsky stubbed out his cigarette on Robert’s forehead.

Robert was quickly reduced to a black plastic shape. Kavinsky lifted him into his arms and took him to Robert’s truck. The black plastic dripped ominously. Adam was left staring at the deep red stain that covered the cement floor.

Adam pointed at it when Kavinsky returned, “What about—what about—?”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” Kavinsky said and produced a knife. He jammed it into the lid of a large can of car oil, cracking it open just a little. He set it onto the wheeled rack of car supplies. Dozens of tire plates gleamed dully from the bottom rack.

Kavinsky adjusted the can of car oil and adjusted it again. He stood behind the rack and peered through the bars of the rack at the stain.

He kicked it over.

The rack fell over with a tremendous crack. It nearly stopped Adam’s heart. He jumped to his feet, tensed like a wild animal. The last few things clattered to the garage floor. A tire plate rolled by Adam’s feet.

Kavinsky lit another cigarette, “Sorry, I’m a little clumsy. You’ll be the one cleaning it up tomorrow.”

The can of car oil was open and weeping brown oil all over the floor. It quickly eclipsed Robert’s blood. Adam stared at the spreading stain. It reflected the garage lights muddily. Adam glanced between the oil and Kavinsky.

“One brown stain looks a lot like another,” Kavinsky said, and padded out of the garage, “Are you coming?”

Adam stared at him. Then, slowly, he started to follow Kavinsky.

“Fucking moron,” Kavinsky scolded, “Don’t forget the damn murder weapon.”

Adam turned around and snatched the tire iron from the floor.

*

Kavinsky drove them nearly out of Henrietta. It had taken Adam an inordinately long time to pack away his things at Boyd and leave it looking normal and closed. He’d worn plastic gloves that Kavinsky had pulled over his hands for him. While Adam had been closing up the store, Kavinsky had dreamed up a mysterious, chunky grey bottle.

They drove Robert’s truck, the Mitsubishi towed behind them. Robert was taped up in the back of the trunk. Whenever they went over a pothole too fast, Robert bounced and thumped back down. It made Kavinsky smirk and Adam came dangerously close to vomiting.

Night closed in around them. They passed a car or two, but nobody could see the body in the back, especially when it was this dark. Kavinsky made sure to smile and wave at every car that they passed.

Eventually, Kavinsky stopped at the edge of a great black lake.

Water reflected the stars. The horizon seemed to loop back around. Kavinsky turned off the truck’s engine and the world became silent. It was like everything sighed.

Adam burst out of the truck and vomited over the bushes before collapsing. Kavinsky lifted Robert from the back of the trunk. The body hit the ground with a dull thump.

“You sit there, peaches,” Kavinsky said, “Mama will sort it out for you.”

Adam didn’t think he could get from the wet earth if he’d tried. He watched Kavinsky plunge a shovel into the soft mud. It took at least twenty minutes for Kavinsky to dig deep enough. Every rhythmic thump and scrape of the shovel seemed to echo around Adam’s head.

Kavinsky rolled Robert’s body into the grave. He produced the chunky grey bottle and uncapped it. Noxious black liquid spilled out, and when it made contact it fizzed and popped, sending up sparks.

Adam stood up and made to peer into the grave—but Kavinsky put a hand on his chest.

“You don’t want to see what that does,” Kavinsky said, and pushed him back lightly. Adam sat back down.

Kavinsky emptied the rest of the bottle into the grave. He capped the empty bottle and tossed it into the back of the truck. He walked around and unlatched the Mitsubishi from the tow-line and started the engine in the truck. He pulled up the hand break.

The truck’s doors all hung open like wings. Kavinsky dropped a large stone on the accelerator and dropped the hand break. He leaped back.

Driverless, the truck bounced across the uneven earth. It hit the lake and sent up a wave, water crashing across the earth. It continued into the water, slipping underneath. The engine flooded and stopped, but the truck’s momentum kept it going. The bumper slipped under the black lake. Finally, the ripples disappeared.

It was like the world had swallowed the truck. It was like it had pulled Robert inside itself.

“The--…” Adam found his mouth numb and slow, “The tire iron?”

“Destroyed it with the body,” Kavinsky said, “Sorry, did you want a souvenir? I think your ear will scar, if that’s a consolation.”

Adam stared at the grave. Kavinsky shovelled the earth back over the hole. Even as he worked, Adam could see grass pushing through the replaced earth, the land returning to its original state. It was impossible. But as the last shovel full of dirt hit the grave, thin grass was already pushing through the disturbed mud. It was indistinguishable from the rest of the bank.

Kavinsky pushed the shovel through the Mistubishi’s open back window. It rested on the plush leather seats, caked in mud. For a moment, Kavinsky watched the world around him, admiring his own good handiwork.

Adam struggled to his feet. His whole body felt thin and weak.

“Parrish,” Kavinsky caught the other boy’s rubber-gloved hands and pulled him against him, “Don’t tell anyone your father beat you tonight. Alright?”

“What?” Adam said.

“If you tell,” Kavinsky squeezed his hands through the sticky plastic, “It’ll put you and him together, and you’ll become the last person to see him alive. That’s not a situation we want to be in, understand? Tell them you didn’t see him, tell them you were with me, you were partying in Richmond. We’ll back you up. It’ll be watertight.”

“Uh…” Adam squeezed his eyes shut. His brain hadn’t switched back on, “Right.”

Kavinsky patted his cheek fondly.

*

Adam didn’t remember the hour after that.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting on Kavinsky’s lap in his bedroom bathroom. Kavinsky was trimming his nails, working the dry blood from the cuticle. Adam’s hands were spotless, which must have taken scrubbing and scrubbing, but Adam didn’t remember it.

“Where are we?” Adam asked.

“My place,” Kavinsky growled, bringing Adam’s hands up to his eye.

Adam stared at him. Kavinsky dabbed a cotton ball onto the nail marks over Adam’s wrist. He worked delicately and efficiently.

“How do I know you won’t betray me?” Adam asked.

“Stupid question,” Kavinsky pressed another plaster over Adam’s cheek. His fingers were rough and cold.

“I’m serious.”

Kavinsky raised an eyebrow at him, “It’s a damn stupid question. I’m a fucking accessory. You think I’d go through all that work just to confess and get myself slapped behind bars for three years?”

Adam bit his lip. It all felt unreal. Robert had died too suddenly, and then Kavinsky had appeared like a wraith and tidied it all away. It had barely taken four hours. Four hours and Robert Parrish, a man who had been tormenting him his whole life, had been wiped off the face of the earth.

Him and Kavinsky—they weren’t… He had never used the word “boyfriend” for Kavinsky, not aloud and not in his head. He’d called him “girlfriend” more often. But they weren’t quite normal friends either—Adam had been a passing comet dragged into Kavinsky’s orbit. Every word he thought swam around his head, either too close or too far for what he and Kavinsky were to each other.

“It isn’t enough,” Adam said, “That’s nothing… permanent.”

Kavinsky watched him. He smoothed down a plaster across Adam’s bicep. Then he smiled, his Cheshire cat grin flicking back on, and left.

Adam watched him go. He glanced into the mirror. Kavinsky had covered his headwound in soft, padded bandages, and dabbed iodine across his bruises. His broken lip had a plaster over it. Adam touched his face, lightly, as if he didn’t recognise it.

Kavinsky reappeared, holding a tattoo gun.

Adam stared at it.

“How’s this for permanent?” Kavinsky purred, sitting next to him. He pulled off his shoe and sock and presented his right foot to Adam. He pushed the gun into Adam’s hand.

“What am I supposed to do?” Adam asked.

“Whatever you want, baby,” Kavinsky said, “Whatever will make you trust me.”

Adam thought of writing _I KILLED ROBERT PARRISH_ on Kavinsky’s ankle. Kavinsky would let him, probably enjoy it. Adam quickly discarded the idea. He patted Kavinsky’s skin with disinfectant and pressed the needle of the gun to the soft skin under the knot of Kavinsky’s ankle bone.

“Be delicate,” Kavinsky said, “You want to reach the deeper layer of skin, but you don’t want to reach blood or bone. You could kill me.”

“No pressure,” Adam murmured.

“What a finale that would be,” Kavinsky purred sweetly, “killed by a lover in the bathroom the night of a murder.”

Adam turned the tattoo gun on. It shook in his hand as he pulled it through Kavinsky’s skin. Kavinsky made no noise even though it must have hurt. Blood welled up under Adam’s needle tracks. He hardly dared to breathe. He could see his shivers in the uneven lines of the tattoo

Kavinsky watched him, hawk-like.

Eventually, Adam pulled the needle out. A black, uneven **_A_** stared back at him. He’d carved it into Kavinsky’s foot.

Adam wrapped it in thin plastic and taped over it. His hands shook gently. He knew the tattoo maintenance advice from when his father got tattooed, “Keep it dry. Don’t rub it. Change the dressings every day.”

Kavinsky couldn’t take his eyes off it. He lifted his foot and peered down at it.

“Do me,” Adam said, holding out the tattoo gun for him.

Kavinsky grinned at him, “A regular pair of lovebirds, are we?”

Adam kicked him and Kavinsky grabbed the foot, stripping it bare. He washed it with antiseptic and pressed a needle into it. It hurt. More than Adam thought it would. It took a healthy willpower not to just kick Kavinsky in the face. Kavinsky’s workmanship was clean, cleaner than Adam’s. The _**K** _that surfaced from his work was simple but stylish.

Adam pulled his foot back and stared down at it. Thoughts buzzed like angry flies around his head. It looked good.

*

“Sorry Princess, did I wake you?” Kavinsky said.

It woke Adam up. He was slumped against the passenger side door in the Mitsubishi, boneless. His body hurt in just about every part. The fresh pain in his ankle throbbed sharply.

“Just thought I’d call,” Kavinsky said into Adam’s phone. It still had dried blood in the plastic seams, “I’m about to drop off something of yours.”

Adam sat up. They were approaching Monmouth Manufacturing, the streetlights burned like stars. Kavinsky clicked his indicator on as the car slowed. He snapped the phone shut. Adam watched the lights come on in the Monmouth building, and Gansey burst through the front door.

Kavinsky gestured for him to get out.

Adam opened the car door and stepped out. He put weight on his tattooed ankle and immediately regretted it, stumbling to one side. His knuckles were fiery with pain. He struggled to close the door. He looked back at Kavinsky as he limped towards the entrance. Kavinsky gave him a little wave and put the car into reverse.

Gansey engulfed him in a hug.

“Shit—” Adam hissed in pain, pushing him off.

Gansey released him immediately and peered down at him. He took in the split eyebrow, the split lip, the bulky bandages over his ear. His bloody knuckles. His limp. Gansey’s grip around his arms was vice tight. “Let’s get you inside,” Gansey said, “Are you alright on the stairs?”

“I’ll be okay,” Adam said, shuffling his feet onto the steps. As he walked, light flashed over his ankles. The K stood out like a brand.

“That bastard Kavinsky,” Gansey murmured, when he thought Adam couldn’t hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> tw: _Someone_ gets brutally murdered. idk, i thought it was romantic ...
> 
> ["Mutri"](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bulgarian_mafia) = Bulgarian mafia


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw in end note

Gansey brought him inside.

Monmouth Manufacturing was a picture of saturated oranges, the low lamps casting long spools of light over the dusty, barren floors. The miniature Henrietta was a complicated mess of shadows and peaks. Adam noticed that the building supplies weren’t there—there was no ongoing construction in the ant city.

Gansey didn’t ask anything except, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Gans,” Adam held his hand tightly and let himself be dragged towards bed. Gansey always kept a spare bed in the corner, even though Adam never slept over. Gansey even changed the sheets regularly.

“I’m going to make you some hot cocoa,” Gansey said, smoothing his palms over his pyjamas. He suppressed a yawn.

“Thank you,” Adam said, resting his head on the crisp pillow. He watched, through half-lidded eyes, as Gansey pottered around the cubby kitchen. He set a pan on the ring and poured milk into it, stirring and stirring.

It was times like these where Adam loved Gansey fiercely, to the point where he felt it as a rubbed-raw pain on his heart. Even though Adam arrived unexpectedly, even though he interrupted a rare night of sleep, Gansey didn’t even look bothered. Even though he didn’t have to, even though Adam never had to ask him to, he was making cocoa.

Adam sunk into sleep.

*

The peal of a ring tone stirred Adam from his rest.

Sunlight streamed through the bare windows and everything on the factory floor burned with light. Adam blinked blearily, pushing the heavy covers from his shoulders.

The phone clicked off, and Gansey spoke: “Oh, Hello, Mr. Boyd. No, Adam can’t come in today, he’s sick. Yes, thank you. Yes. Sorry he’s asleep right now. Thank you. Goodbye.”

Adam’s eyes drifted shut again. He pulled his covers tighter around him with a soft sigh.

*

Adam resurfaced early afternoon.

He felt weary and rung out like he always did after pulling an all-nighter. He brushed his teeth with Gansey’s toothbrush. He was wearing Kavinsky’s clothes—a worn grey sleeveless top and Nike sweatpants—although Gansey wouldn’t have recognised them. Adam didn’t know the fate of his work clothes.

When Adam emerged from the shower, his skin was pleasantly warm. Water ran down his temples. He was scrubbing at his scalp with the towel when he heard Gansey’s voice: “Kavinsky?”

Adam leaned back, flat against the wall. The still air was cool against his scalp.

“Not a problem,” Ronan said, lowly. When Adam peered around the wall, he could see Ronan leaning against the counter, Chainsaw pottering around the glasses and dirty plates, “I heard his dad’s back in town for the next few weeks, so he has to be home.”

“That’s a relief,” Gansey said, resting against the fridge.

Adam paused for a long moment, before going back to scrubbing his scalp dry.

*

It was very impressive. Adam’s life had started to unravel at a meteoric rate and he had seen it all stretch before him, eight months of trial, discussions with lawyers and Gansey and Ronan, pleading with the prosecution, pleading with the jury, pleading with the judge. State-wide news coverage. Weeks or months or years in jail, fines he couldn’t afford. After that, as an uneducated adult felon, no Aglionby and definitely no Ivy League… Gansey would know him as a troubled childhood friend, his mother wouldn’t take him in, his world would continue with him utterly alone.

Then Kavinsky arrived, moved a few pieces on the board around, and now—now Gansey saw Adam as the same battered young man he’d always been. Adam had had an abusive father and now an abusive boyfriend, passed from one victimhood to another, and Gansey didn’t even blink twice. Adam, to him, was a mostly defenceless creature, and definitely harmless.

It was easy to let Gansey and Ronan assume things about Kavinsky, to let Kavinsky be the villain. He was suited to the role and they already hated him. Kavinsky wouldn’t have cared—he didn’t care if people loved him or hated him, so long as they knew he was powerful.

*

Adam returned to school on Monday.

Gansey was trying hard to suppress his mother hen instincts. He followed Adam everywhere subconsciously, every time Adam turned around there Gansey was, looming over him. Normally, it would have annoyed him. But at the moment he felt so out of sorts and shaken up that it was immensely comforting. He made sure to smiled at Gansey whenever he saw the other boy frown.

Ronan flanked him like a bodyguard. Noah hung around the hallways, as if watching the exits. Blue called him during lunch, just to talk. Adam felt them crowd around him and he appreciated it.

When it reached the end of the day, he pulled Gansey aside. It took a lot of effort to express what he wanted, but finally he said, “Gansey… is it alright if I stay at Monmouth Manufacturing for a few nights? I don’t really want to go home.”

In another situation, Gansey would have beamed. But instead he only half-smiled, warm and familiar, and wrapped an arm around Adam’s shoulders, “Of course, Adam. Stay as long as you need.”

*

No Missing posters were put out for Robert Parrish. No articles about him were written in either of Henrietta’s two papers. Adam leafed through them and found nothing but general small-town news. No warrant out for him. No body discovered.

*

Adam skipped class and cycled to his house.

Normally, he would have never skipped lessons unless it was absolutely necessary. It seemed that all the little things that used to prey on his mind didn’t matter anymore. He felt like he was floating through the world, skimming across the surface of his life.

The ride was longer than he remembered. He was used to catching lifts and it was an extra half hour to cycle.

Through muscle memory he tied up his bike outside the trailers and walked up the rickety metal stairs. The trailer door was thin and when he knocked the whole thing shook a little at the impact.

His mother opened the door.

Amy Parrish was a shortish woman, at least a head shorter than her son, with round, dumpy features and sloping shoulders. Her dirty blonde hair was pulled into a scraggly, low ponytail and her makeup was smudged and inelegant.

She stepped back hurriedly when she saw him, “Hello, Adam. You look well.”

 _Ah-dum._ Her Henrietta drawl made it almost three syllables. Adam tried to remember the last time his mother had used his name, instead of the “boy” she usually addressed him as. He stepped into the trailer and she took a step back, giving him ample room.

“Mom,” He said, “I came to get some stuff.”

“Of course,” Amy said, “You can take whatever you need. Or you can leave it here, I don’ min’ takin’ care of it.”

Adam watched her like she was an alien. Amy smiled shakily at him and he turned away from her. His room was as he’d left it, which was unusual. Usually his parents turned it over when he spent the night away, looking for money he’d hidden or extra food he’d kept or just to piss him off. He started to pack away his things into his slim bookbag. He hadn’t really thought it through, else he would have brought a larger bag.

There was a knock at his bedroom door and Adam frowned at it. His parents had never knocked.

He opened the door and looked down on Amy.

“Adam,” Amy said, and he saw what she was holding. Three thick wads of bank notes were clasped in her short fingers.

“What’s that?” Adam asked.

“It’s money from the bank,” Amy said, “Robert and I… we put some of the money away when you earned it.”

Adam took one of the wads and turned it over in his hands. The notes were crisp and fresh, and in the sort of numbers Gansey and Ronan usually threw around.

“I can get you the rest of it,” Amy said, “I jus’ need to move some stuff around.”

The notes quivered in her hands.

She was terrified of him. Adam’s eyes widened as he stared at the tremor that ran through her. Her head was turned slightly, as if she was expecting him to hit her. The realisation sunk like a stone through him, icy and cold. He felt like he was about to faint.

“No,” Adam pushed the wad of notes back at her, “You keep’m.” He threw the bookbag over his shoulder, half-full of home stuff. Amy was thanking him as he pushed past her, stumbled down the steps and fumbled through unlocking his bike. His heart was hammering.

*

The dam broke right before he reached Monmouth Manufacturing.

Adam was shaking like a leaf as he scrambled up the steps. He burst through the door and hobbled to the bathroom where he vomited into the toilet. He was still heaving when Gansey rushed to him and brushed his damp hair from his forehead.

It felt like the world was ending. Adam was dying. His whole body was turning inside out. He gagged and spat into the toilet. Gansey tried to give him some water, but he ended up inhaling part of it and coughed his throat raw.

Adam’s shaking was volatile. He pressed himself down, wrapping his arms around himself tight, tight, to stop himself from coming apart. Gansey stroked his hair and murmured to him.

Then he began to cry.

He didn’t think he’d ever cried in front of Gansey before. Not when Gansey had found him bleeding on his trailer’s yard. Not during any sad or soppy movie he’d watched during long summer evenings. Not when he’d overbalanced and fallen down the escape stairs outside Monmouth manufacturing.

Adam bawled into Gansey’s lap. He couldn’t even identify what emotion he was feeling, all he felt was a white-hot pain, a crushing sense of weight. Adam was at storm, the whole of him roiling and boiling and smashing together, and all he could do was hold himself tightly and hope he made it through.

It was endless. Adam closed his eyes and saw the corpse of Robert Parrish; he opened his eyes and felt the enormity of what he had done weigh down on him. He would never be normal again. He would never be whole. He had bashed in the skull of his father. He was a devil, a creature.

“Oh god,” Adam gripped Gansey’s back tightly, pressing his face into Gansey’s stomach, “Fuck, oh god…”

“It’s alright,” Gansey murmured, stroking his hair, “It’s alright, Adam, it’s alright…”

*

Gansey helped him into bed and he slept again.

It was a strange, uncomfortable rest, like being submerged under deep black water. He could barely move his arms and legs. His eyelids felt glued together. His mouth and nose were filled with the scent of clean laundry. Around him, he could hear the sounds of Gansey cleaning; hoovering, washing the tall windows with a pole, sweeping the empty floors. As he finally drifted into deeper sleep, he heard the noises of him washing up their plates, the clink of ceramic and the intermittent batter of the tap running.

*

Adam went to his next shift at Boyd’s. The clutter in the garage had been tidied away. Daisy chewed his ear off: “You wrecked everything and made me clean it up! There was oil over everything—do you know how gross that is? It took me hours to scrub away and we had to throw away all the manuals that were on that shelf too! You’re lucky Boyd didn’t take it out of your wages!”

Adam half-listened to her tirade, “Sorry, Daze.”

There was a white convertible parked over the spot where Robert Parrish had been murdered. It felt to Adam vaguely wrong, like desecrating a grave. The oil stain stretched all the way under the car and out the other side, like a shadow under the cement.

“Hmm!” Daisy put her hands on her thin hips, “You’re lucky I like you.”

*

Adam pushed through Nino’s double doors and walked into the parking lot.

Ronan had Kavinsky pinned against the bonnet of his car, black eyed and bloody. Every time Ronan hit him; his skull made a metallic thump against the BMW’s white bonnet. Kavinsky’s legs were hardly holding him up, limp and spread-eagled. He took every punch without even flinching, as if Ronan was hitting dead meat.

Adam moved before he could think, dropping his bag and sprinting across the parking lot.

Ronan was taller than him, and broader. Adam tried to pry his hands away, but Ronan was like a Jack Russell with a rat, his fingers latched around Kavinsky’s blood-speckled shoulder. Adam felt panic rising as Ronan tried to shake him off. Finally, Adam kicked the back of Ronan’s knee, trying to knock him over, pulling him sideways.

Ronan punched Adam in the eye.

It was instinct. Ronan was trained to box. When he felt himself hit, felt himself start to fall, you had to fight with reflex. It was a glancing blow. No wind up. Adam didn’t even fall over, he just stumbled back, more shocked than pained. He stared at Ronan, silent.

“Adam,” Ronan said, “Shit, I didn’t mean to.”

Adam pushed past him. Kavinsky had slumped against the floor, bleeding from the mouth. His eyes were dull and painful. Adam worked his arms under Kavinsky’s armpits and hoisted him up.

“Adam,” Ronan said, “I only—”

Adam slapped his hand away, “Don’t fucking touch me, Lynch.” He held up and the boy slumped against him, head heavy. Warm, wet blood began to soak through Adam’s shoulder.

Kavinsky’s white Mistubishi was parked close. The door was still open and Adam could see the keys in the ignition. He managed to get Kavinsky into the passenger seat and buckled him in, although he was floppy as a doll. Adam closed the door and got into the driver’s seat, clipping them both in.

As Adam drove away, he saw Ronan standing alone in the parking lot. Ronan looked lost, a single solitary figure.

*

Adam drove without knowing where he was going. His phone buzzed every once in a while, in his pocket, but he ignored it. When he was out of sight of Nino’s, he looked over at Kavinsky, “Where do you want to go? Is home safe?”

Kavinsky was slumped bonelessly in the passenger seat. His nose bled steadily, and his mouth hung open, every line of his face heavy with exhaustion. He looked like roadkill. Blood was crushed at the back of his neck; his hair was unwashed. He was skinnier than when Adam had seen him last, his cheeks hollow and his collarbones pronounced. His dark eyes were unfocused.

“Лайна…” Kavinsky’s voice was low and croaking, “I am so fucking dizzy.”

*

Adam sat in the waiting room, his legs stretched out in front of him and his head down. The hospital floors were a plasticky blue and stuck to his trainers. He counted his breaths, trying to parcel out the terrible emotions which burned through him.

The television in the waiting room played some historical drama, the thick, blocky subtitles took up a sixth of the screen. Women in pale dresses discussed things over tea, although Adam couldn’t follow the text. A man next to him paged through a large newspaper, occasionally making a scoffing noise like a cough. A pink-faced baby wailed, while its mother tried tirelessly to soothe it.

Adam’s phone rang silently in his pocket and he considered ignoring it. A heavy weight had fallen around his shoulders, like a lead blanket.

He pulled it out and answered it as he walked outside, “Hello?”

“ _Adam?”_ Gansey said, surprised. Adam checked his phone. Gansey had called ten other times and only got voicemail. Adam grimaced.

“What is it?” Adam asked, putting his phone back to his ear as he pushed through the hospital doors. It was late afternoon now. The hospital buildings threw down long shadows. Adam rested his back against a slim white birch tree.

“ _Listen, Ronan is really sorry,_ ” Gansey said, “ _You know how he is. I promise I’ll punch him back._ ”

Adam smiled faintly, “It wouldn’t help, Gans. I appreciate the offer, though.”

“ _It’s on the table,_ ” Gansey said, “ _Are you alright though? Are you safe?”_

Adam felt his heart go cold, “Am I alright?”

“ _Yeah._ ”

“What about Kavinsky?” Adam asked, frowning slightly.

Gansey said nothing, although Adam heard him breathe on the other end of the line. Finally, Gansey asked, “ _Where are you?”_

“I’m at the hospital,” Adam said.

“ _Is Kavinsky there?”_

“He’s in surgery right now.”

Gansey sounded stunned, “ _Surgery? Ronan said he only roughed him up a little._ ”

Ronan would say that. Kavinsky couldn’t even stand up, but to Ronan that was a light tap. Adam felt his anger twinge in him, but he tamped it down, “It was probably something his dad did to him.”

Gansey was silent for a long while.

Adam scuffed his shoes into the dirt at the tree’s base. Cigarette butts squashed under his feet.

“ _Oh_ ,” Gansey said.

“Yeah, Oh,” Adam rolled his eyes, “Look, Gansey. I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me.”

 _“Adam,_ ” Gansey said, “ _I’m not—I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life, but are you sure you’re alright with Kavinsky? You’d tell me, if you needed help? I can’t help but think… Kavinsky is just…_ ”

“Kavinsky,” Adam gritted out, “never punched me in the face.”

Gansey breathed in sharply. It was a low blow, but Adam couldn’t find it in himself to feel guilty. “ _Adam—”_

Adam snapped his phone shut, hanging up on him. He trudged through the hospital parking lot. A chill had settled around him, bringing goose-bumps to his arms.

*

Kavinsky lay under the hospital sheets. There was something about the shapeless blue patient gown that made his arms look spindly and stick thin. His skin was pale and his injuries stood out almost luminously. Parts of his body—nose, one eye, one ear, his knuckles—were thick and padded with dressings. His dark eyes were closed.

Adam sat next to his bedside, “Kavinsky…”

Kavinsky struggled to open his eyes. His gaze was dull. It took a moment for him to find Adam.

It seemed so wrong to see him like this. Kavinsky was vivid and alive and dangerous. Adam had always thought he was untouchable, impossible. Inhumane, maybe. But now he just looked like another cokehead teenager with a busted face. He looked very tired.

Adam sighed heavily.

Kavinsky’s hair was plastered haphazardly over his face. He blinked, trying to shake hair from his eyes.

Adam’s father had once told him that you could tell a trailer park dog from a normal pet dog by the way it approached you. A normal dog would walk right up to you, tail wagging and tongue hanging out. A trailer park dog would approach you at an angle, in case it had to dodge a boot to the ribs.

When Adam reached over to brush hair from Kavinsky’s eyes, Kavinsky flinched sharply.

Adam let his hand hang over Kavinsky for a moment, before he pulled it back. He scrubbed his face, hard. He was exhausted.

“Why does it always feel like my life is falling apart?” Adam murmured into his hands.

Kavinsky’s chest crackled as he breathed. “Yeah,” Kavinsky said, voice thick and difficult, “I tend to have that effect on people.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> x  
> x  
> x  
> X  
> X  
> X  
> X  
> X  
> X  
> X  
> Tw: a character is injured so much they are hospitalized  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
>   
>   
> Gansey: He's an aggressive, insensitive, antisocial drug dealer with a long history of violence  
> Adam: You don't have all the facts  
> Gansey: Which are?  
> Adam: I love him :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw in end notes

Adam couldn’t go home and didn’t want to go to Monmouth Manufacturing, so instead he shuffled from one of Kavinsky’s friend’s houses to another, week by week. Without even noticing it, Adam had inherited a rich and expansive posse network all seemed eager to do whatever he asked. Even with Kavinsky in the hospital, he was still the dark prince of Henrietta, and that made Adam royalty by association.

Adam still bought his own food and supplies, carrying them in a borrowed backpack. Kavinsky’s friends all had huge, largely unused houses where Adam could always find a corner to lock himself away in. It felt oddly nomadic. He couldn’t say he had ever been properly comfortable at the trailer park, with his room’s leaking roof and the thin, chilly walls, but the constant strangeness of his sleeping arrangements weighed on him. He ended up taking semi-permanent residence in one of Jiang’s spare rooms.

Kavinsky’s gang were reasonably nice to him. They tended to have short fuses and foul mouths, and they would be much worse roommates if their houses weren’t so huge that they struggled to make all of it messy. They tended to pass out stoned or drunk right when Adam needed them for something.

The embarrassed, self-effacing way Gansey used to spend money used to annoy Adam a little bit, until he was at a chip shop with Skov and the boy slapped down two hundred-dollar bills for a small bucket of chips and told the cashier to keep the change. It turned Adam’s stomach.

Every night he had a nightmare.

He dreamed he was back at Boyd’s that terrible night and when he brought down the tire iron down on the lifeless, heavy body—it was Gansey’s face looking up at him, skull black with blood. He dreamed he was swimming in the middle of a pristine, inky black lake, and the hand of Robert Parrish closed over his ankle.

Eventually, Adam solicited sedatives from Jiang’s personal stash. They were too strong for him and left him groggy and cold in the mornings, sitting through lessons mindless and uncomprehending. His grades began to dip.

Mostly, Adam wished fiercely to see his friends again, but he knew they would never stand Kavinsky and he couldn’t give Kavinsky up.

He wished he could forgive Ronan, he wished he could make them all understand. He wished his father was still alive. He wished he’d never met Kavinsky. He wished Gansey understood. He wished Kavinsky was normal, untraumatized, and his quick wit and sharp temperament served only to amuse his friends while they all sat around Monmouth Manufacturing, talking and laughing late into the night.

*

Adam saw someone die in the Aglionby parking lot.

He was between lessons, walking with his arms full of books, when he heard a low wail. He stopped immediately, his blood running cold.

Over the hoods of shining Bentleys and low-riding Cadillacs, he saw a white hand struggle in the air. Blood dried over the fingertips, and the veins were shockingly blue. Adam approached, gripping his books tightly. He couldn’t not go. He needed to see.

A girl lay sprawled between the cars, her long white dress clawed and soaked in blood. She was in fits, twisting her arms around and going through half-lunges. Her feet were caked in mud and there was a weeping scarlet wound around her neck. Her mouth opened and closed, forming desperately, silent words.

Adam knew it was a ghost. He knew because every so often her flailing legs would sweep through the bumper of the pristine red Chevrolet Cruze behind her as if it wasn’t there. Her fingers would slip through the tarmac and remerge. He knew; but still he was utterly horrified. Because he was looking right at him. Her watery blue eyes were locked with his and he had an awful sense that the words she was speaking were for him.

“Adam?” Prokopenko asked, leaning on the bonnet of a Honda a few cars down, “What’re you looking at?”

When Adam glanced back at the ghost, she was gone. Predictably. He ran a hand through his hair, “I don’t know, Proko. I don’t.”

*

Kavinsky returned from the hospital after two weeks. The bandage over his nose had been eased off and he was left with an ugly red mark and a nose even more crooked than it had been before. His hair had grown long enough to curl above his ears. His eyes were darkly shadowed and sunken. Had he always looked so fragile?

Adam hugged him tightly. They stood in the foyer of Jiang’s wide, flat house. Kavinsky smelled of disinfectant. He wrapped his arms around Adam in return and rested his chin on the top of Adam’s head. Kavinsky swayed a little, and Adam realised he was putting too much weight on him and stepped back.

“Missed me that much?” Kavinsky purred, catching Adam’s hands in his own.

“Of course I did,” Adam said, tiredly, “Come on, we should wash your hair.”

Kavinsky and him padded through Jiang’s open-plan mansion, bare feet soundless on the dark mahogany floors. By now Adam knew the rough plan of the place and directed them both to a large bathroom in the south corner. It was almost as big as Adam’s whole trailer, the bath as big as a double bed, the two sinks designed to look like humongous carved pearls. The automatic lights clicked on as Adam pulled Kavinsky inside and closed the door behind them.

“Are you feeling alright?” Adam asked as he turned on the shower and tested the temperature with the back of his hand.

“I’m great,” Kavinsky said. He lowered himself to the floor and leaned against the side of the bath, “How are you holding?”

“Fine,” Adam said and detached the showerhead.

Water bounced against Kavinsky’s head. Adam ran his hands through the wet tresses, making sure the water reached the scalp. Although he tried to direct the stream towards the bathtub, it still speckled the cream tiles. The shoulders of Kavinsky’s shirt was darkening.

“Talk to Lynch much?” Kavinsky asked.

“No,” Adam shut off the water and dropped the showerhead in the wet bathtub.

Kavinsky looked at him through the dark sheets of his wet hair. It was longer than Adam had ever seen it, a lion’s mane which peaked and curled over his chin. “Why?” He asked.

“You know why,” Adam said. He reached past Kavinsky’s head to the array of shampoos on the bathroom shelves. He chose a green apple shampoo and poured a generous amount into his cupped palm.

Kavinsky’s grin was a little hollow, “You got bad taste in men, Parrish.”

“It’s not about you,” Adam said, although they both knew it was, “Close your eyes.”

Kavinsky’s eyes slid shut as Adam worked the shampoo into his scalp. Adam scratched the back of his neck and worked his thumbs into the baby hairs at the corner of Kavinsky’s forehead. Adam’s eyes cast over Kavinsky’s face. Nothing on the boy ever seemed to heal, bruises seemed to appear on one place and reappear somewhere else.

“Sorry,” Kavinsky said.

Adam paused in his washing. That was the first time he’d heard Kavinsky apologise and for a strange reason he hated it. He gritted his teeth, “Don’t apologise.”

Kavinsky’s eyes snapped open.

“No,” Adam said, massaging Kavinsky’s soapy scalp, “I know you provoked him, I know you said something horrible, but I—well. When it was his brother, maybe. I don’t know. I can’t forgive that. Even if you’re his worst enemy, nobody deserves to get beat like that.”

Kavinsky narrowed his eyes, “Except your father?”

“I don’t,” Adam said, “forgive myself.”

Kavinsky watched him, silent as a grave, pupils as black and round as a shark’s eye.

Adam turned the water back on and the hot jet crashed against the side of the tub with such a noise it drowned out his thoughts. Kavinsky closed his eyes again and the water parted his hair. Adam ran his hands through his hair and squeezed the last of the suds out of the ends of his hair. He watched then spiral and slip down the drain before he turned the water off.

Apple-scented conditioner was thick and creamy in Adam’s hands. He lathered Kavinsky’s hair in them, turning his tresses slick and heavy. Kavinsky relaxed under his ministrations, head sagging forward just slightly. Adam rubbed the clumps of hair between his finger and thumb.

Hot water blasted the conditioner away. The water pressure in Jiang’s house was startling. Adam was used to the slow trickle of the water in the trailer, the pressure so limp it only reached his chest and Adam had to twist and turn to get even his short hair properly wet. Steam collected on Adam’s eyelashes.

Kavinsky let out a soft sigh.

Adam looked down at him. Kavinsky’s eyes were closed and his face was relaxed, under the dark, wet hair plastered to his head. Adam rested his hand on the back of Kavinsky’s head, like he was about to pull him close. He wanted to press his cheek against Kavinsky’s wet cheek.

Kavinsky’s eyes opened a crack, presumably because Adam had stopped moving. Adam shut off the water and stood up. He retrieved the blow drier.

Hot air hit Kavinsky in the side of his head. With his eyes closed and body lax, he let Adam move his head around, lifting the dark mass of hair and dropping it to dry it from every angle. The blow drier was uncomfortably hot on Adam’s hands. He had never used one before. Finally, he shut it off and returned it to the cupboard.

Kavinsky stood up, knees cracking. His hair was soft and plush. It was almost long enough to tie up, although the ponytail would probably come loose.

Adam moved back into the main house. Kavinsky followed him. The house was silent and empty—they were the only living things in it. Jiang had no pets and no family to speak of. Adam walked back to the guest room he had claimed, the smallest one Jiang’s mansion had. It was a handsome, square room, with a mirror above the bed which took up almost the whole wall.

Adam sat down on the bed and started to take off his shoes. Kavinsky stood in the doorway, leaning on his hip.

“What are you thinking of doing, Kavinsky?” Adam asked, setting his shoes down at the foot of the bed.

“Sleeping,” Kavinsky kicked his shoes into the corner of the room.

“I don’t mean that,” Adam pulled off his hoodie and shirt, “I mean, in the future? When you graduate?”

Kavinsky raised his eyebrows. He tilted his head, “What about you, Parrish?”

Adam glared at him. He climbed into bed, pulling the covers over him, “Turn the light off.”

The light clicked off.

Moments later, Adam felt the bed sink as Kavinsky climbed in with him. Adam shifted to one side to give Kavinsky enough room. They lay next to each other, a clear line between them. Not a hair touched.

“I’m going to move out of here,” Adam said, “I’ve got almost enough for a deposit. I had to leave a lot of my savings back at the trailer, but I’ve been building it up again. I’ll refocus my attention on school, then I’ll graduate with honours.” Adam’s eyes had adjusted enough to see Kavinsky’s bottomless eyes on him, and he continued, “Then I’ll apply to Harvard.”

Kavinsky murmured, “Easy.”

“Easy,” Adam agreed. He shifted, pulling the pillow further under his head. The sheets were crisp and smelled fresh. An unseen cleaner had spirited in and out while he had been away, cleaning everything. “Now you, Kavinsky.”

Kavinsky frowned a little. His classic grin had dimmed, “I don’t have one. I never plan.”

“Never?” Adam said, “We can plan now. Have you always wanted to do something? I could see you as a…” Adam trailed off.

Truth be told, Adam couldn’t see Kavinsky being anything. Teacher? Scientist? Firefighter? He tried to imagine Kavinsky behind a counter, or in a sports field, or an office. It seemed like a joke. Kavinsky didn’t have the temperament for work, but he wasn’t the sort who could live off money alone, either. He wasn’t Gansey’s parents, who never really needed to but dabbled at politics for their own entertainment—Kavinsky needed to work and work _hard,_ there was a thread of nervous energy that ran through him as taut as a bow string and it hummed and hummed. He needed to do something—but what, Adam had no idea.

“I don’t know if I’ll make it to graduation,” Kavinsky said. He said it flatly, as if pointing out the obvious, “That’s almost a year away.”

Adam felt something clench in his chest, tight, like a fist. He clenched his teeth before he said, “And what if you do?”

Kavinsky closed his mouth.

“What if you keep on?” Adam said, “What if you keep living, what if you make it to twenty, thirty, thirty-five? What if we both keep on living and living?”

“You can’t ask me that,” Kavinsky said, voice hollow and hurting.

Adam shifted and stretched out his arms. He slipped one hand under Kavinsky’s cheek, snug between him and the pillow, and ran a thumb under Kavinsky’s eye. His hair was still warm from the blow dry, warm like cat fur.

“What if that’s what I want?” Adam said. He could feel Kavinsky’s lower eyelash brush his calloused thumb when the boy blinked. His skin was warm and oddly soft.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Kavinsky said, eyes open and uncomfortably dry, “ _Fuck,_ Parrish. I didn’t think I’d make it to seventeen, and you’re asking me to get to thirty-fucking-five? I can’t do this shit again.”

“It’s what I want,” Adam repeated.

“Life is not like that,” Kavinsky said, lowly, “You don’t always get what you want.”

Adam pulled his other hand from under the covers and laid it on Kavinsky’s cheek. Kavinsky’s face was between his hands, his expression wary and dark. Adam was so close; he would only have to move a bare inch to kiss him. He didn’t. He only looked into Kavinsky’s eyes, and Kavinsky into his.

Kavinsky pushed his arm under Adam’s ribs and pulled him closer, shifting the bedding around to bring Adam against him. Their legs tangled together and re-tangled until they were comfortable. Adam never thought he would like sleeping wrapped around someone else—he thought it would be hot and awkward and he’d wake up every time the other person snored or moved—but he did. He really did. Kavinsky held him close, Adam’s head on his chest, Kavinsky’s arms around his middle. There was a cocoon of body heat around them, constant, heady and hot. Adam fell asleep.

*

Ronan Lynch knocked on the trailer park door and took a quick step back. He waited. Gansey stood in the yellowing grass behind him, artfully posed to stop his Chinos from getting dog shit on the soles. Gansey only shrugged.

“Maybe they’re out?” Gansey asked, although the Parrishs never seemed to be out anywhere. Gansey was briefly distracted by an elderly man a few trailers away who was urinating on his sunflower plants. Gansey quickly looked away when the man caught him watching.

“It’s a Sunday,” Ronan said, “On the third Sunday of the month, Parrish stays home to do chores. He should be here.”

“He could have changed his schedules,” Gansey said.

A muscle bounced in Ronan’s jaw.

Neither of them had spoken to Adam in a month. Gansey had managed to get through to him on the phone one time since his talk at the hospital; Adam had told him not to call him again. Ronan had wanted to catch him at work, but Gansey said that would be crossing another boundary. Adam wouldn’t be able to turn them away or leave, and Gansey would feel like he’d trapped him there.

Gansey caught a glimpse of the curtain moving in the window. When he looked back at Ronan, it was clear that he’d seen it too. Ronan raised his fist to knock again.

The door opened.

“Mrs. Parrish,” Gansey moved forward and Ronan stepped back, letting Gansey work his magic, “I hope we’re not interrupting anything.”

Mrs. Parrish peered at the two of them. Her hair was loose and unbrushed, hanging in rough sheets across her soft shoulders. “What d’ya want?” She asked, flat and hard.

“Adam,” Ronan asked, “Is he in?”

Mrs. Parrish narrowed her eyes at him, “No.”

“When will he be back?” Ronan asked, “I need to talk to him.”

“Never,” Mrs. Parrish said, “He doesn’t live here anymore.”

Gansey felt something cold go through him. After exchanging a look with Ronan, he asked, “When? When did he… move out?”

Mrs. Parrish leaned on the door frame. The circles under her eyes were dark, “Five weeks ago.”

That had been when Adam had moved briefly into Monmouth. He hadn’t moved back home since. Gansey frowned, “Do you mind telling us where he is?”

“Why?” Mrs. Parrish asked.

The questions startled Gansey, but not Ronan. “I want to apologise to him,” Ronan said, sharply.

Mrs. Parrish stood up straighter, her stocky frame blocking the doorway. She tightened her grip on the door handle and fixed Ronan with a dark look, “You’re wasting your time. No point apologising to a boy like that.”

Gansey straightened, “What?”

Mrs. Parrish examined the two of them. Something about the look made Ronan bridle and Gansey’s shoulders rise. It felt like she was weighing up the two of them while she decided what to say.

“Look, Adam might seem calm enough,” Mrs. Parrish said, “but there’s something rotten in him. Knew it all my life. I don’t know what put it there, but we could never get it out. You’d best stay away from him. He’s got the devil in him.”

Gansey felt every muscle in his chest tighten. He could see a line of tension rise in Ronan’s back, like was about to pounce. With a herculean effort, Gansey breathed deeply enough for the anger to ebb in him, like a receding tide. But he still couldn’t speak, the muscles in his jaw refused to open—let alone smile. He couldn’t do it.

After a long pause, Ronan said, flatly, “Thanks. We’ll be going.”

“You best think on my warning,” Mrs. Parrish stepped back into her trailer, “He’s not like you, he don’t think like you. He’s like a crazy dog.”

Ronan took Gansey by the elbow and marched him out of the trailer park. Gansey was stiff and mechanical, his chest burning and burning.

*

“Adam?”

Adam lifted his head, the fresh linen shirt still in his hands. He glanced across the laundry room to where his manager, Marie, had poked her head around the door. Her clipboard was pressed against her chest, and her green-grey uniform was starched and sharp.

“Can I help you?” Adam asked, lightly. Marie usually didn’t bother him in the middle of shifts.

“Your, er,” Marie glanced behind her, into the hall, “Sister? Is here.”

Blue Sargent pushed past Marie and waved, “Hi, big bro!”

Marie glanced between the two of them. Blue looked about as different to Adam as it was possible to get. She was short where Adam was tall, her hair was dark and curly where Adam’s was straight and pale, her skin was a dozen shades darker than him.

“You sure she’s allowed back here?” Adam asked.

“How mean,” Blue said, producing a small packet, “I even brought you cookies.”

“It’s only the washing room,” Marie shrugged, “Don’t get behind schedule and I won’t mention it to anyone.”

“Thanks,” Adam said, and Marie smiled at him as she closed the door behind her.

Blue and Adam were alone now, packed in on all sides by the churning, chaotic industrial washing machines. Adam folded the clothes mechanically, dropping them into the huge baskets. The air smelled thickly of fresh chemicals, detergent mostly.

“You just wash clothes here?” Blue asked.

“It’s a factory,” Adam said, dropping another brown shirt on top of the last one, “Everyone needs a uniform.”

Blue sat on the edge of the metal folding table, “You want a cookie?”

“No,” Adam said, “What’s with that white stuff on your face?”

“It’s not war paint, before you ask,” Blue said. There were white marks over the corners of her nose and between her eyebrows. It stood out sharply against her warm brown skin, “It’s sudacrem. Orla gave it to me, it’s to stop the spots from getting worse.”

Adam nodded wisely. A machine clicked and silenced in the corner and he approached it with his empty basket. “What are you here for, Blue?”

“You, obviously,” Blue stood up.

“Me,” Adam said, unlatching the washing machine door, “and what do you want with me?”

“Well… What if I just want to see you, is that allowed? Must I want something?”

Adam pulled the wet laundry into the basket. It came out in one brown lump. It used to remind Adam of brown seaweed, damp and pungent. The smell of fabric conditioner filled his mouth and nose as he reached into the machine to pull out the uniform which had escaped him.

Blue hovered behind him. She was wearing a cute white shirt that looked like the top of an Edwardian dress, the white lace ruffles descending to long cotton sleeves that she had cut and re-sown at her elbows. Around her throat was a bandana the colour of a cloudless summer sky.

“What do you want, Blue?” Adam asked again.

“I want us to all be friend again,” Blue said.

Adam set the full basket down at the foot of the dryer, unlatching the door. It swung open and Adam started to pull the wet clothes inside.

“That’s what I want, too,” Adam said, softly.

Blue followed him, leaning against the dryer, “Well, that makes it all easier.”

“Does it?” Adam asked, smiling despite himself. He heaved the last of the clothes into the dryer and turned to drop the empty basket back in front of the running washing machines.

“Of course it does,” Blue said, standing in front of the dryer, “Look—you missed that night we did everyone’s fortunes, didn’t you? So you can just all come over for that. I’ve made an appointment for five-thirty at 300 Fox Way on Wednesday evening, you can make it, right? I checked at all your jobs, so don’t say you can’t, plus it’s after Aglionby finishes. If you’ve got a date then cancel it, this took too long to arrange.”

Adam stared at her.

“Do you want me to write it down?” Blue asked, sweet as pie.

“Um,” Adam frowned, “Well… is it alright if I bring Kavinsky? I don’t think I want to make up with everyone until we sort it all out with him.”

“Sure,” Blue said, “Will he want his future read?”

“No idea,” Adam admitted, “But you might want to check with Gansey and Ronan. I don’t know if they’d be fine with him there—I don’t want them to walk out.”

Blue shook her head, “No, they won’t. I won’t let them.”

Adam believe that. Blue might be small and polite, but she had a way of swaying all three of the other boys to her will. Even Adam felt an inclination to do whatever she wanted, just to have her smile at him. He was honestly curious to see her try it on Kavinsky.

“Yeah,” Adam said, finally, “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Blue shut the dryer with a click, “It’s a date. I’ve got to go but—don’t be late!”

“I won’t,” Adam said, watching her skip out of the room, “I promise.”

“Holding you to that, Parrish,” Blue said, and closed the door behind her.

*

Kavinsky was staring into his own eye, applying makeup to the scary dark rings around his eyes and over the egg-shaped bruise on the corner of his jaw he had gotten from a scuffle with Skov over drinks. He moved very slightly, applying the foundation with the tip of his little fingers in dabs, blinking quickly when he brushed his bottom eyelash.

Adam didn’t want to say that the makeup wasn’t making much difference—Kavinsky couldn’t hide those black shark eyes—but the effort warmed him. So instead he said, “I want you to be nice to the psychics.”

“I can be _nice,_ ” Kavinsky said. _Nice_ in his mouth sounded like a cuss.

“Not just to the psychics,” Adam said, running a comb through his hair, “To Gansey and Ronan too. We’re not trying to start another fight.”

Kavinsky set the glass bottle of foundation down, “Sure, Adam. Do you want the moon too?”

“And be nice to Blue,” Adam said, pulling out shirts from his suitcase and holding them against his chest, peering into the mirror, “And don’t call Gansey ‘Dick’. He hates it.”

“I know,” Kavinsky said, “that’s why I call him that.”

Adam pulled a coca-cola shirt over his head, “Would it help if I said please? Please can you behave yourself?”

“I’ve never behaved,” Kavinsky said, sullenly.

Adam threw his bag over his shoulder and kissed Kavinsky on the forehead as he passed, “First time for everything.”

“I’ll be late,” Kavinsky called after him.

Adam waved without looking back, slamming the front door after him.

*

Adam latched his bike to the front gate of 300, Fox Way. It was a worn, thin-looking house, bigger than its neighbours small for how many women walked its halls. Adam walked up the garden path, hands in his pockets. He tried to disguise how nervous he felt.

Ronan Lynch opened the front door.

Adam watched him. He waited for him to speak.

“Adam…” Ronan said, “You look…”

Adam touched the cheek where Ronan had hit him. It had been a light bruise and had long since healed. He managed a small smile, “I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry,” Ronan said, stiffly. Chainsaw sat like a parrot on his shoulder, bobbing and ducking as if she was nodding.

“Not me you should apologise to,” Adam said.

“No,” Ronan responded.

Adam glared, “Ronan, you—”

“Adam,” Ronan took a step forward, “Hold on. I mean I should apologise to both you and Kavinsky. I shouldn’t have hit either of you.”

Adam stared at him for a long moment before he sighed, “Thank you.”

“It was shitty of me,” Ronan said, “He was saying such—horrible things. About you. But he was already sick.”

Adam said nothing. Kavinsky had probably lied and said whatever he could to provoke Ronan. Adam didn’t know why Kavinsky did it, but he seemed to want people to snap at him. It was more than a mean streak. It was a compulsion. Although, Kavinsky didn’t tell him about Robert Parrish, and Adam didn’t know what he could have said that would be worse than the truth.

Ronan was still watching him, still standing in front of the door.

“What else?” Adam asked.

Ronan closed his mouth and a muscle jumped in the corner of his jaw, “You would tell us, if he was hitting you?”

 _“Jesus,_ Ronan,” Adam hissed.

“I need to know you’d tell us,” Ronan said, “It would kill Gansey if you didn’t.”

“You’re messed up,” Adam said. He made a move to get past him, but Ronan stepped in front of him again.

“We only want to help you, Adam,” Ronan insisted, “This is crazy! You wouldn’t tell us about your dad and now you won’t tell us about Kavinsky.”

“Nothing’s happening with Kavinsky!” Adam snapped. “God, Ronan, you ever thought that maybe I didn’t tell you about my dad because I didn’t _want_ help? That maybe I just wanted you to be my friends without acting like I was a fucking lost puppy?”

“That’s not fair,” Ronan snapped back, “Wanting to help is part of being friends.”

“Part of being friends is trusting me!” Adam said, “That’s something both of you have failed at. You didn’t even ask me about Kavinsky before you sent him to the hospital—for _what?_ Driving me home after my father beat me?”

“That night was your father?” Ronan asked, eyes widening, “I thought—”

“I know what you thought, Ronan. You thought you should go into saviour mode without even asking me!” Adam pinched the bridge of his nose. What he wouldn’t give for some weed right now.

Ronan took a step back. His dark eyebrows knitted together as he thought. It looked like he was rearranging things in his head. He didn’t look any happier with the result, but he relaxed very slightly.

Adam tapped his foot, “Can I come inside now? It’s cold.”

Ronan moved out of his way. There was a moment of indecision before: “Hey, Adam.”

Adam stopped, half inside half outside the doorway. He looked back at Ronan.

“I feel like I fucked shit up,” Ronan said.

Adam sighed, “Me too. I should have told you about Kavinsky earlier, maybe tried to integrate him into the group.”

Ronan tilted his head, looking mildly unwell, “Wouldn’t go that far.”

Adam laughed. He stepped aside to let Ronan in and closed the door after both of them.

*

Persephone sat opposite Adam. Persephone was like a woman in a pre-Raphaelite painting, tall and willowy, with long sheets of curled white-blonde hair and unfocused, doe-eyes. She rested her long fingers bare inches from Adam’s hands, her eyes rested on his knuckles. She hovered her hand over her tarot pack, which was spread out in a fan in front of her.

“Oh dear,” Persephone said, tilting her head slightly.

Adam’s stomach flipped.

“That’s not a good sign,” Calla said, in case anyone needed that pointing out. Gansey cast worried looks at Ronan, who ignored him. Noah and Blue sat together at Adam’s right.

Persephone flipped over a card almost carelessly. The Magician. “Of course,” She said.

“What does it mean?” Gansey asked.

When nobody answered him, Blue took the question up, “The need to tap into your potential, probably. You don’t have to hold back anymore.”

Gansey frowned, “But what—”

“Adam,” Persephone’s soft voice cut through the conversation like a razor, “Tell me. Have you had visions?”

Gansey whispered to Blue: _Visions?_ This seemed to intrigue him. Blue seemed excited too, leaning close to the table. Noah peered over Blue’s bowed head at Adam. Adam didn’t look at them. Adam looked at the table, and his clasped hands.

“Speak up, boy,” Calla insisted, sharply, “This is important.”

“I…” Adam swallowed, “Yes. I have.”

“When you sleep or when you’re awake?” Maura asked. She had appeared from somewhere and now leaned over her daughter, as if she was about to grab at Adam.

“Awake,” Adam said, “Or, both. I don’t know what’s a dream and what’s real.”

“What,” Persephone asked, “are they of?”

“Death,” Adam said.

Calla leaned back slightly, as if the response made her weak. She sucked in a thin breath, “Death? Describe them.”

“There’s a… boy in Aglionby who hanged himself. A baby in main street. A girl who died before Aglionby was built,” Adam ran a hand through his hair, “A woman who was hit by the train. A man who froze to death, another who starved, one whose chest was crushed, one who legs—”

Persephone held up a slender white hand and he stopped. He hadn’t realised how weak he had become until he stopped and his whole body shuddered. It was like he was being dissected.

Maura, Persephone and Calla all exchanged looks, a silent conversation playing out over their heads. Gansey no longer looked excited, only worried. Perhaps he thought Adam was losing his mind. Adam would prefer that to a physic explanation. Adam had been wondering if he’d been cursed.

“That explains the ley line activity,” Calla concluded.

Maura said softly, “Oh, crap.”

“Oh, crap is right,” Calla agreed.

“What’s this about the ley lines?” Gansey asked, “Is Adam connected to it somehow?”

“Not connected,” Calla said, “If we’re right, your friend _is_ the ley line.”

Adam leaned heavily on the table. He couldn’t look at Gansey. He tensed and untensed his fists. His chest hurt. He wished, strong and sudden, that Kavinsky was there. Kavinsky would have drawn the spotlight away from him and given him a break. As it was, every set of eyes was on him.

“What happened?” Ronan asked.

Persephone flipped a card over. The Tower. “A terrible thing,” Persephone said, “A terrible act.”

“Loss of innocence,” Maura said, “Crossing a line.”

“Blood,” Calla said, “Death.”

“Oh god,” Adam’s head was in his hands. His shoulder shook softly. Maura reached over and rubbed his shoulder. Adam’s forehead hit the reading table and he wrapped his arms around his face.

“What?” Gansey asked, “What happened? Adam?”

“It’s alright, Adam,” Maura murmured, “It’s alright. You’re safe here.”

Adam felt cornered. He felt like the bear trap had triggered around his ankle.

“What’s wrong, Adam?” Blue touched his hand.

Adam unfurled slightly. He only realised he had started to cry when he opened his eyes and found his eyelashes heavy and his vision blurry. He peered over his arms at Gansey. Gansey looked distraught.

“You may as well tell them,” Calla said, “They’ll think it’s worse, if you don’t. It’s crueller not to tell.”

Adam doubted that. But he was cornered. He remembered, vaguely, the line of the Shakespeare play he had studied in Aglionby: _I am in blood stepped in so far that should I wade no more / Returning were as tedious as go o'er._ Adam was steeped in blood, and there would be no returning.

“What happened?” Gansey asked, tentatively.

“He was going to kill me,” Adam whispered, voice harsh and low. He sat up a little, “I had no—no choice. I didn’t even know what I was doing.” Adam raised a hand and put it half-curled around his own neck, “He had me—by the throat. He was going to fucking kill me. I was going to die. I should have died.” Adam swallowed thickly, “So I-I killed him.”

“Who?” Noah asked.

“My father,” Adam closed his wet eyes, “I killed him. I beat him to death. I beat him until—until his fucking brains came out.”

There was a taut silence. No eyes left him, and even with his eyes closed he could still feel them on him. He was so tired. He wanted to collapse into himself and die. He pressed a hand into the reading table so hard it began to tingle.

“You’re joking,” Gansey said, voice high and thin, “You’re joking, right?”

Adam opened his eyes. His damp eyelashes stuck together. He only looked at Gansey.

Gansey shrunk away from his eyes. He pulled his arms closer to himself, his face pale and drawn. He wrapped around himself, “Holy crap.”

Ronan just stared. His expression was utterly unreadable.

“But your dad isn’t dead?” Blue frowned at him, “Wouldn’t there be something in the newspaper about it? We would know about it, surely.”

“No,” Adam said. His voice was low, croaky and miserable, “My mom won’t report it. She thinks I’ll… I don’t know. And trust me, he’s dead.”

“Where’s the body?” Noah asked, quietly.

“I, uh,” Adam frowned, “I don’t know exactly. It’s by a river. We buried him in the middle of the night.”

“Ley line,” Noah frowned to himself. He seemed like only one not collapsed by the news. He sat and scratched his chin, deep in thought.

“Who’s ‘We’?” Ronan asked. His voice was hollow and quiet, like it was coming from very far away. Adam looked up and saw a very un-Ronan Lynch expression on his face. He looked like he’d seem a tsunami wave roll through the room and carry everyone under. He was waiting for the wave to hit him, too.

“I had help,” Adam intoned.

“Help,” Gansey echoed. He looked like he’d been slapped, “Help?”

Persephone reached across the table and flipped over a card. It took everyone a while to gather their senses enough to look over at it. The crisp card showed a manlike figure with goat’s legs and a long red tongue. A tail curled around his cloven hooves and horns burst from between his dense black curls.

“The Devil,” Blue murmured.

There was a thump behind them. Everyone spun around, startled.

Joseph Kavinsky leaned his hip against the door frame. He smiled jauntily at the gathering, “Evening, ladies.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Soo yes this fic is finished and the "epilogue" that i wrote for this story is also finished except the "epilogue" mutated into a sequel in its own right, and now I'm writing an _epilogue_ for that sequel and soo _(:3 」∠)_ and so the snake consumes its own tail...


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no specific tw for this chapter I don't think

When Kavinsky sauntered in, he immediately drew all eyes to him, like a magnet among nail filings. He sat in the chair between Adam and Gansey and stretched his long legs, resting his yellow all-stars on the corner of the reading table. He oozed danger.

“The Devil,” Maura said, “It represents being seduced by the material world and physical pleasures. Do you feel bound to material things, as if you can’t escape them?”

“Absolutely,” Kavinsky said, “but some of them are prescription.”

Calla smiled thinly, “We can read your future. If you take your shoes off the table.”

“No, ta,” Kavinsky looked around the room. It looked like a bomb had gone off, “What’s all the long faces? Miss me that much?”

“Kavinsky, right?” Blue asked, “Could you take your shoes off the table?”

Kavinsky fixed her with a look, “Blue Sargent?”

“Yes,” Blue answered warily.

“For you, Sarge,” Kavinsky pulled back his legs and rested them on the corner of Gansey’s chair instead. Gansey looked down at the dirty marks Kavinsky was leaving on his khakis.

“So you don’t want a reading?” Persephone asked.

“Nah,” Kavinsky purred, “I work better without preparation.”

“Could you take your feet off my chair?” Gansey asked.

“Sure, Richard,” Kavinsky said and moved again. The line of his body was pressed against Adam’s, warm and solid, “Could I have a Beer? I’ve got something to share.”

“Where did you bury Robert Parrish’s body?” Noah asked.

Kavinsky’s eyebrows rose. He glanced around the gathering, taking in their shell-shocked expressions. Everyone was silent. Kavinsky leaned forward to peer at everyone’s face in turn. He almost leered at Lynch, who was pale as a corpse.

“Well shit!” Kavinsky slapped the table, “I guess I missed the main event. Why do you wanna know?”

“We should move his bones,” Noah said, “or it could be bad later.”

“No bones,” Kavinsky correct, simply.

“What do you mean,” Gansey asked, “no bones?”

“I mean there ain’t no fucking bones,” Kavinsky grinned wolfishly at him, “This ain’t my first rodeo. I dissolved the body in fast acting acid and boosted bleach so I could turn him back into worm food. So if you wanna move _the body_ you’re looking at putting a two-by-eight _dirt plot_ in the back of your ugly Camaro.”

Another silence. Blue looked like she was about to puke.

Ronan stood up. His shoulder shook a little and he fixed his eyes on the door.

“Sit back down, Lynch,” Kavinsky ordered.

“I’ve got to go,” Ronan murmured.

“I said sit the fuck down,” Kavinsky snapped.

Ronan glared at him hotly.

“I promise it’ll be worth your while,” Kavinsky said. He glanced between Ronan and the chair. After a long stare, Ronan sat down. Kavinsky smiled at him.

Persephone collected the tarot cards gently and slid them back into their silk pouch. She didn’t seem perturbed by Kavinsky’s generally perturbing aura, instead she watched him with eyes which looked vaguely forlorn. Blue wondered if, picking the cards up to slide them into the pouch, she had sensed something she hadn’t meant to. It had happened before.

Calla set a cold beer in front of Kavinsky.

“Thank you,” Kavinsky cracked the lid off with his back teeth. Instead of spitting it out, he slid the lid into his breast pocket. He glanced at Adam and smiled.

“What are you going to do?” Gansey asked.

“Drink this beer,” Kavinsky showed him the label. Gansey looked back at him, impassive. Kavinsky looked around the group to make sure everyone was watching. He spoke, his voice low and musical, “Keep your eyes fixed on me.”

He cracked a few green pills between his teeth and washed them down with a beer. He swallowed thickly and leaned back onto Adam. Adam wrapped his arms around Kavinsky’s middle to support him. Kavinsky sighed and closed his eyes. He relaxed.

Everyone watched him with bated breath. Kavinsky breathed slowly, his dark eyelashes fluttering. Gansey had a strange feeling, like he wanted to jump up and break the silence, but he only sat and watched. Kavinsky’s breathing changed and he twitched, once.

There was a solid thump as Kavinsky slammed a potted plant onto the empty reading table.

Nobody saw where it had come from. It wasn’t there and then it was. And it was the strangest potted plant anyone had ever seen. It was moving. Smooth pale-green vines spilled out of the pot, turning and twisting over each other, leaves spearing the air all over. A Venus flytrap mouth opened and shut like a fish.

“Where did it come from?” Noah asked. He reached out a hand and one of the vines lifted to wrap around his fingers lightly, like a baby grasping. Noah pulled his fingers out and the vine pawed blindly at the air.

“My head,” Kavinsky said, “It came out of my dreams.”

“You can do it on command,” Ronan breathed. It didn’t sound like a question.

Calla looked impressed. Maura smiled at the pawing, wriggling plant.

“It’s for you, Sargent,” Kavinsky pushed the pot towards her.

Blue looked shocked, but blushed pink, “Me? Really?”

“It eats trash,” Kavinsky said, “It’s very eco-friendly and it won’t bite you. I call it Aubrey III.” Gansey shot him a side-long look but he was ignored.

“Aubrey III,” Maura beamed at Kavinsky, “ _Little Shop of Horrors_ is one of my favourite movies.”

“What interesting friends you have, Blue,” Persephone smiled faintly.

Blue smiled and pulled the plant towards her. It probed her face with small green feelers, and she pushed them away. They wound gently around her fingers and unwound. Kavinsky took the bottle lid out of his shirt pocket and tossed it at the plant. Aubrey snatched it out of the air with the flytrap mouth and swallowed it appreciatively.

“How did you do it?” Gansey asked, “Is it from the ley line? How were you able to do it?”

“I’m a thief,” Kavinsky said.

“You’re doing it command,” Ronan leaned forward, “How?”

Kavinsky leaned forward too, so him and Ronan were almost nose-to-nose. He purred, “’cause I’m a thief, Lynch. A thief can always choose what to steal.”

Ronan sat back, a dark look in his eyes.

Blue pulled Aubrey against her and wrapped her arms around the base of the plot. She let the green feelers poke and prob at her neck and tug gently on her dangling earrings. The flytrap mouth snapped open and shut.

“It’s so impressive,” Blue said, “You really are magic. Can you really take anything out?”

“With practice,” Kavinsky said.

“The plant’s alive,” Gansey said, “How can you bring out something that’s alive? Would it still be alive—if we took it away? Is there a distance limit?”

“Not that I know of,” Kavinsky said, “You could probably take Aubrey to Timbuktu and it would be fine.”

“It’s not connected to you?” Gansey asked. He had scooted forward on his chair, obviously excited despite himself.

“It is,” Kavinsky said.

“How?” Ronan asked.

“If I die, it dies,” Kavinsky said. He reached over and put a hand against the soil in Aubrey’s pot. The vines immediately encircled his arm, like the tentacles of a friendly octopus, “It’s body might keep moving, but the mind will be gone. Me and my dream creatures all share the same soul.”

Ronan locked eyes with Kavinsky. Then he stood in shaky legs and left the room. Nobody tried to stop him.

“It’s been a rough evening,” Adam said.

It had been the first thing he’d said in a while. He looked exhausted. Gansey frowned at him. It broke Gansey’s heart to see him like that.

“You’re right,” Gansey said, and stood, “We should call it a night. I’ll—Well, we’ll talk sometime.” Adam watched him, hollow-eyed.

*

Declan Lynch’s phone began to ring, startling him out of a nap he hadn’t meant to take. He nearly threw his phone across the room trying to answer it but he managed to get a grip on it and stared down at Ronan Lynch’s caller ID.

Perhaps hell was freezing over, down below him. Perhaps if he opened his dorm room curtains, he might see some potbellied swine struggling through the evening sky over Henrietta. He was so dazed, he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Was Ronan dying? Would he even call Declan, if he was?

Declan answered the phone, “Ronan?”

“Meet me outside the dorms,” Ronan growled, and the line clicked off.

Declan raised his eyebrows at the phone. Well, that had been Ronan’s voice, so presumably there was enough of him still working to make a phone call. That had been up in the air for a while.

*

The night was gathering, and Declan wished he’d grabbed his scarf on the way down. As it was, he only had his black fitted coat and gloves. They were stylish, fitted to accentuate his shoulders and lengthen his figure, but the wind sliced through it.

Ronan paced outside his badly parked BMW, his arms bent at the elbows like a boxer in the ring. He looked livid. Anger tightened his shoulders and drew back his head. Declan regarded him as a French aristocrat might regard a guillotine.

“Yes, Ronan?” Declan tucked his gloved hands into his pockets.

“Mom—” Ronan hissed and snapped his teeth together, “Did you ever see Mom? You know, after?”

Declan narrowed his eyes, “We’re not allowed back at the Barns, Ronan. Have you gone back?”

Ronan gritted his teeth, “Of course I fucking—” Declan snatched his hand viper-fast, and wrenched him forward. Ronan threw a punch that Declan dodged, and with one hard shove he knocked Ronan backwards, against the BMW.

“We are getting in that car, Ronan,” Declan panted, “and we are driving off.”

Ronan looked like he might bite him, “You are getting your fucking hands—”

“I know you like to think your actions don’t have consequences,” Declan hissed, anger finally showing as a small wrinkle between his sculped brows, “But they actually do. I will not stand here and let you throw away Matthew’s livelihood because you want to have a tantrum in public.”

Ronan gritted his teeth, but his eyes narrowed in a way Declan knew meant angry, but in control. Declan held in there for a moment, before he finally released him and stepped back.

Fuming, Ronan walked around the BMW and threw the driver side door open. He walked mechanically, like his joints were rusty and stuck together. He sat in the driver’s seat, one fist around the steering wheel the other gripped vice-tight around the gear shift. How Ronan had the energy to be that angry all the time, Declan had no idea.

Declan climbed into the passenger seat, shutting the door behind him. He buckled himself in, “Is Nino’s open this late? We could—”

The car lurched forward so suddenly it knocked the wind out of Declan’s chest. He shifted in his seat. The car bounded across the gravel and burst out of the Aglionby gates, already much too fast for a residential street. Declan watched houses streak past their windows.

“Did you know about Mom?” Ronan asked, through gritted teeth.

“I’m not talking to you while you’re driving,” Declan said, simply. He watched Ronan swerve wildly to avoid a cyclist.

“Stop fucking dodging!” Ronan hissed at him.

“I can’t trust you not to take your attention off the road and hit me.”

Ronan almost proved him right, glancing at him like he was about to strike, but didn’t. He returned his eyes to the road. White lines sliced under the bonnet as they sped up.

Uneasy, taut silence stretched on the entire time they drove. Ronan’s fury was difficult to sit next to, like a lit furnace. Declan could almost see it smouldering, and the length of silence did nothing but stoke the flames. He wasn’t looking forward to when it detonated.

The moment they reached a more secluded stretch of land, Ronan swerved the car into the hard shoulder, parking so suddenly the BMW’s nose was buried in thick foliage and the end edged into the road. The engine shut off.

“You aren’t actually allowed to park here,” Declan observed.

“Get out.”

Declan got out. Ronan burst from the driver’s side and slammed the door behind him. He rounded on Declan.

“You knew about Mom!” Ronan roared, “You knew! Don’t fucking deny it!”

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Declan said.

“She’s fucking _dead,_ Declan!” Ronan screamed.

His scream echoed around the empty road. Cold air brushed Declan’s hair, wet with promised rain. Ronan half-collapsed onto the BMW’s bonnet, his body heaving. It looked like he was about to be sick, his shoulders shaking.

Declan wanted to hug him. He wanted to wrap his arms around him so badly it was like an ache in him. Desperation burned a cool flame in his belly. But he didn’t move. He kept his eyes down, on the wet tarmac.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Ronan choked, “You fucking knew—and you said nothing. You let me keep on believing, that she might wake up one day.”

“I’m sorry,” Declan said.

“You’re fucking sorry,” Ronan curled his lip, “Well I’m glad you’re fucking sorry—you’re such a piece of shit!”

Declan took a step back.

“You can’t fucking hide that from me! What’s wrong with you?!” Ronan’s voice was so loud it echoed sharply.

“What would you rather I did, Ronan?” Declan asked, “Would you rather I sat you and Matthew down after the funeral and told both of you that not only is Niall dead, but Aurora isn’t waking up either? Would you have preferred it if—”

Ronan punched him.

It caught Declan by surprise and he slipped on the tarmac and crashed to the ground. His cheek burned like a brand where Ronan had hit him. Dirty water began to soak through his khakis.

Ronan hadn’t stopped to watch him fall, and instead had started pacing, pawing the earth like a high-strung stallion. He slammed both palms against the BMW so hard it rocked on its wheels. “Fuck!”

Declan eased himself to his feet. Mud had ruined his cashmere-lined coat in huge, ugly splotches. His ankle throbbed. If he had thought about it, he would have swapped his Chinos for some training boots with better grip, maybe a thicker, padded overcoat. Hell, next time he should just bring a mouth guard and boxing gloves, with the way his meetings with Ronan kept going.

“You don’t get to fucking decide what I do and don’t get to know about my mother!” Ronan roared, “You don’t get to do that!”

“It’s complicated,” Declan said.

“Yes the fuck it is!” Ronan shrieked, “She’s a dream thing! She’s something Dad fucking pulled out of nowhere!”

“Oh,” Declan said, tilting his head, “You know about that too?”

“What does that mean for us, Declan?!” Ronan rounded on him, “Am I even—are we even real? Are you real?”

Declan winced a little, prodding his cheek. The skin has split, and the cold air burned against it. “Is it worth it, asking these questions?”

“You don’t even care,” Ronan said, disbelief colouring his voice, “You don’t give a shit.”

“There are more important things to think about, Ronan,” Declan said, straightening up, “Only people with nothing better to do think about Philosophy.”

“I had to sneak into the Barns to even find out about her,” Ronan said, voice cracking, “And then I just thought it was a coma. It wasn’t until Kavinsky told me—”

“Kavinsky?” Declan frowned, “I told you to stay away from Kavinsky. He’s dangerous.”

“Kavinsky doesn’t fucking matter!” Ronan bellowed, “It’s you who’s fucking dangerous!”

“I did what I had to,” Declan said, sourly.

There was a beat of silence as a truck passed, swerving around the BMW’s back end. A dog in the back of the truck watched the Lynch brothers, its tail as straight and motionless as a knife. The wind howled and shook leaves from the trees. Night took a cold turn.

Ronan smiled, and it was a cruel smile, with an edge like a knife, “I bet you fucking loved it.”

“What?” Declan asked, startled.

There was so much naked hostility in Ronan’s eyes that it was hard to look at. Declan felt a strange prickle of fear in his chest, as if Ronan was a hunter who had taken him by surprise.

“I bet you got a kick out of it,” Ronan said, “Me and Matthew walking around, totally fucking clueless about our own mother, dreaming that one day she’d come back—meanwhile you knew that would never happen. I bet it kept you warm at night, thinking—”

Declan punched him.

Ronan hadn’t even finished recoiling from the blow when he kicked off the BMW’s side and collided with Declan like a wrestler. He tried to get his brother into a headlock, but Declan cracked his elbow against the back of Ronan’s skull.

Maybe a few years ago, when Niall was still training them, Declan would have won easily. He had always had the height and weight advantage. But as Ronan grew up, where Declan had grown long and agile, Ronan had grown broad and tough. Ronan’s shoulders were broad and rounded, like Niall’s had been, and Ronan’s legs were steady as a bull’s.

Declan caught a punch to the eye, and while he was still rocking back, Ronan hit him again, across the nose. Again.

Blood spurted from Declan’s face.

Ronan paused, fist still raised. He had broken the skin of his knuckle on Declan’s cheekbone, and the skin was scarlet. He pulled back.

Declan’s nose bled steadily. He cupped his black glove hands under his face and dark blood dribbled through his fingers. His eyes watered and spilled over into tears which stuck to his lashes.

Ronan reared back, regarding Declan like he was some sort of roadkill. He softened slightly, only to anger again and his eyes went hard. He walked around the BMW and climbed into the driver’s seat.

The beamer backed onto the road and drove away.

Declan let the blood dribble through his fingers. He hated breaking his nose. It was worse than when Ronan simply gave him a black eye—he wouldn’t be able to talk properly for days, now, and he had a presentation for class tomorrow. The nose was such a sensitive thing. He wouldn’t be able to wear his reading glasses until the swelling went down.

With his teeth, he pulled his bloody glove off. He fished his phone from his pocket. The black screen was spiderwebbed with cracks from when he had fallen. It wouldn’t turn on. And the night was very cold now. And the world dark.

*

Kavinsky saw fog beams cut through the back windows of his Mitsubishi. They were so bright his wing mirrors became dazzling stars and his rear-view mirror was a 1,000-Watt bulb. Through the burning white he could make out the familiar bonnet of a BMW. He grimaced. Ronan Lynch was so fucking annoying.

He drove a while just to annoy him, before he finally pulled over, under the hanging bough of a fir tree. Kavinsky didn’t get out his car, instead he just pulled the tab of a beer can with his incisors and began to drink, feet propped up on the dash. Let Lynch come to him for once.

Ronan knocked on his window and Kavinsky raised an arm, languidly, to roll it down, “Here to apologise, Lynch?”

“Yeah I’m sorry,” Ronan spat out.

“Alright,” Kavinsky pressed the button and the window began to roll back up.

Ronan slapped the window, “Don’t fucking do that. I’m not in the mood to play games with you.”

Kavinsky regarded him around his beer can, “You are jumping around like you have fire ants in your pubes, Lynch. I wouldn’t wanna play with you, either.”

“Fuck!” Ronan spun around and kicked one of the boulders at the roadside. Every line of him was tight and angry.

Kavinsky hadn’t seen him that worked up in a long time. It usually meant Kavinsky was about to have a choice tooth knocked out of his head. On any other day, that would draw him out, because it meant Kavinsky had a much easier time of riling him up. Ronan Lynch riled up was a vicious creature. But Kavinsky wasn’t really in the mood to get his face rearranged, not when he had a pretty little thing waiting for him at home.

“I want to talk to you,” Ronan yanked the Mitsubishi’s door open. He paused and frowned at him, utterly perplexed, “Are you actually wearing a seatbelt?”

“You’re a real fucking master of deduction,” Kavinsky said, unbuckling himself. He slipped onto the road and stretched his long legs.

“My mother’s a dream creature,” Ronan said, “And now she’s dead, because the dreamer died.”

Kavinsky shook his head slightly as he tried to keep up, “The dreamer? Your dad?”

“Yes, you prick!” Ronan snapped.

Kavinsky raised his eyebrows, “Well, there is no need for that kind of tone.”

“You’re such a dickhead,” Ronan growled.

“Are you going to get to the point,” Kavinsky leaned against the Mitsubishi, “or are we going to spend the night singing my praises?”

“I just did,” Ronan snapped, “My mother’s dead.”

“So, you want to bring her back?” Kavinsky asked, tilting his head.

Ronan stopped in his tracks.

Kavinsky pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jeans pocket and plucked one from the pile. He balanced it between his lips and lit it. The lighter clicked shut and he tossed it back into the Mitsubishi.

“Bring her back?” Ronan echoed.

“Sure,” Kavinsky said, “That’s why you dragged me here, ain’t it? You want to know how I do it, so you can bring old Mommy Lynch back from the other side.”

“You can do that?” Ronan’s face twitched, “A whole person?”

“Your daddy did, didn’t he?” Kavinsky watched him darkly.

“But he’s had a lifetime of practice,” Ronan frowned, and drew closer, until Kavinsky and him were nose to nose, “you’re saying you can do that?”

Kavinsky put a hand over Ronan’s mouth.

Ronan punched him so hard and so fast, the next thing he knew he was on the floor. Kavinsky coughed harshly and picked himself up, off the cold moss.

“What the fuck was that?” Ronan growled.

“Thought you were going in for a kiss,” Kavinsky coughed and rubbed his stomach. He looked forlornly at the cigarette which had extinguished itself on the sloppy mud. “I had to protect my innocence.”

“You’re disgusting,” Ronan hissed.

“Wow,” Kavinsky grimaced, “Homophobic, much? Don’t let Parrish here you say that.”

“I can’t believe you,” Ronan said, “and I’m trying to have a normal conversation with you, and you keep fucking around.”

“You’re the one who punched me, princess,” Kavinsky said, pulling a fresh cigarette out, “Now, if you don’t want mama back, what is it that you want?”

“I don’t know,” Ronan admitted. He clenched and unclenched his fist. “You’re the only dreamer I know. My mother wasn’t real.”

“Neither is mine,” Kavinsky said, lighting his cigarette, “She’s a genuine monster.”

“I’m being serious, Kavinsky!” Ronan snapped, “What does it mean for me? Niall is dead but I’m not—does that mean I’m fully human? Or is it just going to take me longer to fade away and die?”

Kavinsky watched him. The end of his cigarette glowed. He raised an eyebrow.

“What?” Ronan snapped.

“I’m waiting for you to, uh…” Kavinsky waved a hand around as if he was trying to pluck the words out of thin air, “gain a little social awareness?”

Ronan glared at him, hot and angry, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“What I mean is, you have very tiny problems,” Kavinsky said, tilting his head, “so, your mother’s a dream creature. My father raped me. Tell me how I’m supposed to feel sorry for you, exactly?”

Ronan took a few steps back. He looked like a dog which had been smacked on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. Ronan couldn’t decide whether to scowl or frown, so he just stood there, his fists half-raised.

The night was dark. A helicopter passed among the stars over their heads, visible only as a blinking red dot. Wind whispered and whistled, shaking the trees as it passed.

“No fucking apology,” Kavinsky said after the long silence. He flicked the lit cigarette into the wet undergrowth. “And _I’m_ heartless. Yeah, yeah.” He climbed back into his Mitsubishi.

Ronan stepped forward, “Kavinsky—”

The car door slammed shut and the Mitsubishi peeled off into the dark road. As it snaked around the winding road it flashed through the trees as a ghostly white shape, until the curve of the hill swallowed it completely.

Ronan stood in the empty road. The tarmac gave off a coolness which sank through his shoes. He heard his own breath, slightly ragged and drawn out. He could hear the slight creak of his shoes as he shifted his weight. It was that quiet, the sort of silence that drew out and amplified every noise. The trees were as black as the night sky and everything beyond the pale beams BMW’s headlights was lost to the night.

Somewhere, a coyote howled, lonely. And Ronan Lynch was all alone


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellow again I couldn't resist a very quick update (ó㉨ò) I'm hoping finishing this fic and the subsequent stories will finally rid me of the karrish brainworm that has been wiggling between my ears all this time!
> 
> The only tw I can think of is unrealistic use of explosive devices (you didn't really think I'd get through the fic without kavinsky blowing something up, did you? for shame :p )
> 
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> x  
> ʕ∙ჲ∙ʔ

The next few days were strange for Richard Gansey III.

It seemed to surprise him very much that the world kept moving onwards. He had assignments to complete. His parents called and he heard himself answer their questions and make light small talk, but it was as if he was having the conversations underwater. His father laughed and told him to get more sleep.

Ronan disappeared for three full days. This didn’t worry Gansey. Ronan had disappeared for longer for much less reason. Gansey supposed he just drove around and around Henrietta on the winding empty back roads, sleeping in his car and eating gas station meals. It actually surprised him when Ronan returned so soon, and he was even more surprised at the thick mud which coated the BMW and the tarpaulin folded up in the back seat over a shovel. Ronan was still out of sorts—distant where he was usually brash, angry in sudden bouts.

Blue was oddly skittish and spent a good deal of time at home when she was usually eager to hang out with them. She made excuses and tugged the hair which hung in front of her ear, a nervous tick Gansey was seeing more and more often.

Noah was the only one who seemed unaffected. He sat around Monmouth, reading or watching television, while the three of them fretted around him. It made Gansey wonder if Noah already knew, somehow. Adam wouldn’t have told him. But did he find out somehow? Gansey didn’t ask.

God, he missed Adam. It was like a shard in his chest. His life had a big Adam Parrish shaped hole, like he was missing a limb. It had been that way for weeks. Gansey kept turning around and expecting him to be there, sitting on the arm of the couch or quietly making himself a coffee in the small kitchenette. But he never was.

A week had passed when Gansey’s phone lit up with a call. It was Adam’s number.

“Adam,” Gansey answered breathlessly happy, “I was so worried, where—”

“ _So he’s not with you, then,”_ Kavinsky drawled through the line.

“What do you mean?” Gansey asked.

“ _Adam Parrish has gone AWOL,”_ Kavinsky said, “ _Gather your minions, Richard. I expect this will be a team effort.”_

*

Kavinsky’s white Mitsubishi rolled to a stop outside of Monmouth Manufacturing while Gansey watched from the high window. Blue was the first to open the door and bound down the stairs.

“Sarge,” Kavinsky said, kicking the passenger-side door open, “Get your skinny little ass in here.”

Blue obliged, sitting shotgun in the car. She buckled herself in, “When did you last see him?”

“I was there when he fell asleep,” Kavinsky said, “but he was gone when I woke up.”

“Maybe he just got sick of your ugly face?” Gansey suggested, stepping off the bottom of the stairs.

“Can’t be. He puts up with yours just fine and for longer,” Kavinsky drummed his fingers on the dashboard, “He didn’t even take his shoes.”

Ronan passed the driver’s side window, “Me and Gansey will follow you in the Beemer.”

“No,” Kavinsky said, “Get your ass inside.”

“Ronan’s right,” Gansey said, “I’m not getting in there with you. I’ve seen how you drive.”

Kavinsky grimaced, “Richard—”

“You should listen to him, Gansey,” Noah said from inside the car, his voice soft and unobtrusive. Everyone turned to him. He had sat down in the middle seat in the back without anyone noticing, as if he had just materialised there. His smudgy cheek looked darker than usual, and there was an odd lightness to his complexion. “I think this could be something really bad.”

Gansey had a moment of indecision, before he finally relented and climbed in next to Noah. Ronan followed suit and the slam of the door shook the whole car. Kavinsky released the handbrake and glided into the road. There was the familiar taut string of energy running through him, buzzing.

“Where would he go?” Kavinsky asked.

“You’ve been with him most, these last few weeks,” Blue pointed out, “Would he have gone to your friends’ places?”

“I checked,” Kavinsky said, “Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of him.”

“You sure?” Gansey asked, voice sharp, “Were your friends really _sober enough_ to tell?”

Kavinsky’s eyes flickered up to the dashboard mirror. His dark eyebrows rose a little and the look he gave Gansey was so tiredly disappointed that Gansey actually felt a sharp prickle of embarrassment. Gansey shifted in his seat and looked out of the window.

The car turned. They were moving outside of the busier part of Henrietta, passing coffee shops and the squat library building. It was early morning, before most of the businesses weren’t yet open. People milled around on the sidewalks, dazzled by the sun.

“Do you think this is unusual activity?” Ronan asked, leaning forward.

“Maybe, maybe,” Kavinsky said and chewed the inside of his cheek, “I have no idea. He’s been acting unusually for a while now, though.”

Noah leaned back, sighing softly. He closed his eyes, “It’s the ley line.”

“Really?” Gansey sat up, “What do you mean—it’s taken him, or something?”

“Can it do something like that?” Blue asked, “I thought it was just a line of energy.”

“It was,” Noah said, “It’s awake now. His sacrifice changed the relationship with the land. It’s all different now.”

Kavinsky watched the boy through his dashboard mirror. He watched the road as he said, “There’s something you’re not telling us, Czerny.”

Noah bowed his head until it almost touched his knees. He swung gently as the car turned around the empty streets. He sighed, long and delicate, as if it were ghosting out from the very depth of him, the cradle of his lungs.

“I’m not really here,” Noah said, “I’m dead.”

Gansey watched him, “What?”

“He’s dead,” Blue said, sadly. Her voice was soft, “He means it, Gansey. He showed me the bones.”

“What?” Gansey repeated. He glanced between them, completely bereft.

“I was supposed to be a sacrifice to wake the ley line,” Noah said, “It didn’t work.”

“When?” Gansey asked, desperately, putting a hand on Noah’s knee, “When was this?”

“Seven years ago,” Noah said. He didn’t look at anyone.

“So—so what, the entire time we’ve known you, you’re—you’ve been…” Gansey gagged on the air. His hands pawed the air, as if he was trying to grasp something.

Blue put her head in her hands, “It’s the ley line which makes him look real and solid. It was a surprise to me, too. But think about it, Ganz, you’ve never seen him at school. Who are his parents? Where did he live, before Monmouth? You’ve never even seen him out of uniform.”

Gansey realised with a sinking feeling that she was correct. A heady, dizzy feeling overtook him, like he was about to puke. “Ronan?” He asked, looking blearily over at his friend.

Ronan shook his head, “Blue’s not joking. I moved his body a few days ago when the line began to act up. I’m sorry, Gansey.”

Gansey wrapped his hands around his face. He was pale and cold, as if he had been carved out of ice.

Kavinsky left the town behind, driving into the long flats of farming land. The car murmured around them, not half as insistent as the Camaro, more like the distant rumble of thunder. The trees they passed were bowed like mourners over the narrow road.

“ _Fuck,”_ Gansey gasped. He straightened up, pressing his back hard into the seat until the leather creaked. His eyes were screwed shut, “Does anyone else have any more disturbing revelations they want to share with me?!”

Kavinsky slid his sunglasses over his eyes, “Oh, I got one. Ronan’s a dreamer like me.”

Ronan jerked like he’d been electrocuted, “Fuck you Kavinsky!” He snatched the back of Kavinsky’s headrest and wrenched it back.

“Am I wrong, Lynch?” Kavinsky looked calm and serene, “And if you keep shaking my fucking chair I’m driving headlong into a tree. Don’t test me.”

Ronan released his chair and sat back down heavily. His head dropped into his hands.

“That’s not even registering on my radar,” Gansey rubbed the back of his neck, “We can talk about it later.” Ronan shot him a silent look of thanks.

“Anything from you, Sargent?” Kavinsky asked his passenger.

Blue put a finger on her chin, “I think I’m bisexual.”

“That’s not disturbing,” Kavinsky drawled, “What’s disturbing is your crush on Richard the Third back there.”

Blue went bright red. Gansey spluttered.

“Is it true?” Noah said, a smile coming back to his icy face, “I’m glad I broke up with you now. That might be good for you two.”

“It’s true,” Kavinsky said, “And who can blame her? Richard has the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen. Unfortunately, I’m only into guys.”

Noah laughed. Gansey smacked him on the knee, “Don’t laugh.”

Ronan was ignoring them. He was twisted almost fully around in his seat, staring out of the back window. He looked pale and he gripped the backseat tightly.

Kavinsky checked his wing mirror and found what Ronan was looking at, he grimaced, “Oh, shit.”

Robert Parrish’s red truck tailed them around the Henrietta roads. The truck had no driver, the windows were smashed, and the metal was bubbled with rust. Pond weed slapped the sides as it waved from the wingmirror. But it followed them like a hungry dog, the engine roaring and roaring.

“Yeah,” Ronan turned back around, “You may want to speed up.”

Kavinsky pressed his foot down on the accelerator. The Mitsubishi picked up the pace and Kavinsky shifted into high gear. It was lucky the roads were empty—or perhaps the ley line had designed it that way. Certainly, the road they were driving on seemed much too long, stretching out into the horizon, trees dappling past all the same height.

“It won’t last,” Noah intoned, “It will catch us.”

As if it heard them, the truck revved and began to increase speed. Kavinsky watched the speedometer in the dash click upwards. The truck shouldn’t even be able to drive. Its engine was waterlogged. That meant something else was fuelling it; something impossible to predict.

“Shit,” Kavinsky leaned across Blue’s lap and opened the glove compartment. After a moment of rifling around, he pulled out a small packet of green pills and tossed them at Ronan.

Ronan caught them and turned them over, “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”

“They’ll send you to sleep,” Kavinsky said, “Dream us up something!”

“I can’t do that!” Ronan hissed.

“What do you mean you can’t?” Kavinsky snapped, “What the fuck good are you to me?”

“It’s gaining on us,” Gansey said warningly.

Kavinsky turned back around, gripping the steering wheel tightly, “Shit! I gotta do everything myself in this damn operation. Alright, alright! Richard, under your seat there’s a box, take it out and give it to me.”

Gansey reached under the seat and felt. He grabbed the corner of a tough, plastic box and pulled it towards them. It was very, very heavy. He hefted it onto his lap, “What is it?”

“It’s mine,” Kavinsky said, “Sarge, you’ll have to take the wheel.”

“I can’t drive!” Blue hissed at him.

“It’s simple,” Kavinsky said, “We’re driving straight. Just hold the accelerator down.”

Blue looked pale and shaky. She nodded and unbuckled her seatbelt.

Kavinsky unbuckled himself and climbed onto the passenger seat. There was a moment where the car was driverless and drifted slightly, the speedometer wavering downwards. The terrific roar of the truck behind them rattled the car. Then Blue was in place and the car began to speed up again. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, as if the car would slip away.

Gansey pushed the heavy box at Kavinsky.

“Shit, Richard,” Kavinsky pulled the box onto his lap, “Be a bit more fucking delicate. This ain’t a bag of rocks.”

“What is it, then?” Gansey asked. Stress was making him snappish.

Kavinsky only smiled. He unlatched the sides of the case and lifted the lid. Gansey caught a glance of padding foam. For a long moment, Kavinsky only admired the contents of the case, his eyes glittering. He moved things around Gansey couldn’t see.

“We’re kind of on a time limit, Kav,” Noah reminded him, glancing at the looming truck behind them.

Kavinsky pulled out an object. It looked like a gigantic bullet, gunmetal green, about as thick as Gansey’s forearm. Then Kavinsky pulled out what it was supposed to latch onto—a black contraption as long as Gansey’s leg, with a trigger like a claw.

“Rocket launcher,” Ronin said, breathlessly.

Kavinsky looked insatiable. Gently, he slotted the ammunition into the end of the sleek black rocket launcher, holding it propped against his shoulder like a baseball bat.

“A rocket launcher,” Gansey glared, “You let us into a car with a _rocket launcher_ in it? What if someone hit us?”

“You best be a little sweeter to me, Richie,” Kavinsky growled, “If I get this angle wrong, it’ll go through your fucking window.”

Gansey closed his mouth so fast his teeth clicked together.

“Blue,” Kavinsky said, “When I say, I need you to bank to the right as hard as you can. Don’t worry about anything else.”

“Right,” Blue said, and arranged her hands to make the turning easier.

“Everyone else, keep your mouth shut but your teeth apart,” Kavinsky said, “Else you could shatter them.”

Ronan swallowed thickly. Gansey looked grim. Kavinsky spared them all one last dazzling grin before he rolled the window down.

Cold air poured into the car, as heavy and punishing as ice water. Wind drummed earsplittingly loud inside the vehicle. Kavinsky tossed his sunglasses behind him and wriggled out, feet hooked under the car seat and body hanging outside like a worm in an apple. He took a while to adjust himself, bracing the butt of the launcher against the corner of the window, and moved his hands into position.

“NOW!” Kavinsky bellowed.

Several things happened in quick succession.

The car banked to the right, so violently Gansey was thrown into the other boy’s laps. The tires shrieked. Kavinsky’s elbow cracked against the top of the car, thrown by the recoil.

And the truck behind them detonated.

Metal exploded outwards, fire surged in the centre of the truck, the tires split and scattered. It was like it had run into a brick wall. The noise was incredible—so loud it took Gansey a moment to process it—like a thunderclap inches from his face.

The car plunged into a hedge and took a few lengths to slow to a stop. Blue pulled the handbrake up. Kavinsky pulled himself back into the car, leaves thick in his hair. Everyone breathed sharply. Behind them, they could hear the hollow bounce of a few scraps of metal returning to the earth, a low crackle of fire.

“Ow,” Kavinsky pressed a hand to his elbow. Then he forced the door open and battled the hedgerow until he could stand in the field.

The truck was burning. It had slumped to one side and edged forward pathetically, like a deeply wounded animal. The smell of burning upholstery was thick and oily in the air. Kavinsky could not stop smiling. It was an infectious, childish, happy grin. He pointed at it, giddy, “Did you see that? Nearly flipped over. Fuck me, that was cool!”

Gansey made his way out of the vehicle and watched the burning truck, “Is it done?”

“No,” Noah said, without getting out, “The truck’s defeated, but look at the land.”

Ronan clambered out.

The fields were mangled. Jagged gorges like Godzilla claws were cut deep into the fields, splitting through neatly ploughed earth. A tree was felled to their right, split like a lightning strike, the splintered sides still wet with sap. Gansey did not like to look at it because then he would remember that had Blue banked a second later, they would have driven straight into it.

“How are we going to fix this?” Gansey stared at the deep mar, “I don’t think a rocket launcher would help.”

“And what a shame,” Kavinsky agreed, sombrely.

“It must be about Adam,” Blue said. She drew her eyes from the burning vehicle, “If we find Adam, maybe we can all fix it together.”

“We’ve been trying to find Adam this whole time,” Gansey said, “Where are we supposed to be looking?”

“I have a pretty good idea where he is,” Kavinsky was pulling leaves and twigs out of his hair, “It’s not far from here. Walking distance, maybe.”

Ronan watched him, “His Dad’s grave.”

“Bingo,” Kavinsky said and jabbed a thumb behind him, back into the field, “It’ll be past those Silver Birch trees.”

“The ley line is hurting,” Noah said, watching them through the car’s windshield, “It’s angry and in pain. The sacrifice changes the land’s relationship with the avatar, and with the ley line’s users. It’s destroying Henrietta. Everything needs to be resettled.”

“Resettled how?” Gansey asked.

“You have to bring back what was lost to him,” Noah said. After a long pause he added: “I don’t know anything else. I’m sorry.”

Blue pressed her shoes into the soft, ploughed earth. The gouges had unearthed potato plants, too small to see the light of day yet. She looked back at Noah, “Are you coming?”

“No,” Noah said, “Adam doesn’t need any more death. But I’ll be here when you return.”

“Alright,” Blue looked like she was going to say something else, but she didn’t. She smiled weakly at him.

“Come on,” Ronan said, moving through the group, “We don’t know how much time we have left.”

*

As they passed through the farmland, dodging the deep gouges, the air began to drop a few degrees. A cool, pale mist spread across the land, like a lingering ghost the size of a city. The group gathered together, walking in a huddle. The mist grew so thick that any landmarks were lost to the white. But Ronan kept direction, walking through it like a bloodhound on a trail.

Then, suddenly, they emerged.

The lake, as pristine and mirrorlike as ever. The yellow-grass bank. The tire tracks which led to the water level and disappeared. Gansey gasped.

Above the spot where the last of Robert Parrish remained, a thorn bush grew. Black, bristling thorns covered every part of a sloped, hunched shape, apart from a pale hand which breached the tide of thorns like the fin of a dolphin.

“Adam,” Gansey said.

Kavinsky jumped forward and reached to snatch the hand. Thorns surged over it and Kavinsky pulled back a fistful of brambles. He growled and pulled the thorny vines away, but more grew over it, faster than he could pulled them away.

Blue circled the thorn bush, “There’s no way in. Is he being taken in?”

Roots breached the soft earth beneath their feet. The thorn bush was mutating and growing, thorns slicing the air. Kavinsky crouched and pulled a knife from the heel of his boot and attached the vines, slicing through them. Two replaced everyone he cut through.

Ronan snatched Kavinsky by the scruff of his shirt and yanked him back. Kavinsky shook him off angrily.

The thorn bush stilled. No new branches grew, and the plant quietened, a humongous pile of defences.

“What does that mean?” Gansey asked, “So we can’t cut him out?”

Kavinsky wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. His palms bled steadily onto the grass.

Blue reached for the thorn bush and it shifted and began to grow, like a scab forming where her touch would be. She pulled her hand back. “Can we dig it out, then?”

“I think the roots would do the same thing,” Ronan said, sourly. He regarded the lopsided thorn bush. It was painful to see, “Is there anything we can do?”

“Bring back what was lost,” Blue said, “His father, I suppose? But how?”

Ronan rubbed his knuckles into his temple, his jaw clenched as if he was having a migraine. He ground his teeth together.

“Family,” Kavinsky said, finally, “ _Bring back what was lost_ —he lost family. He finally severed himself from it.”

“So,” Gansey frowned, “So, we should go get Amy Parrish and bring her here?”

“No,” Kavinsky folded his pen knife away. His voice sounded tired and slow, like he was explaining something to a particularly dumb five-year-old.

“Then what?” Gansey scowled at Kavinsky.

Kavinsky rounded on him, and pressed his bloody hands to Gansey’s expensive, white shirt. Gansey could feel the warmth of him through the grip. Kavinsky was so close he could see the other boy’s eyes really were black, the iris and pupil indistinguishable. Kavinsky smiled at him, shark-like, “It’s _you_ , dumbass.”

“Me?” Gansey asked. He was startled.

“You,” Kavinsky pressed his red fingertips onto his cheek, under Gansey’s right eye, “You’re his brother, Gansey.”

Gansey nodded. It was unnerving to have Kavinsky this close.

Kavinsky slapped his shoulder and finally released him. Gansey moved his hands and realized Kavinsky had slid the pen knife into his hands without him even realising. He turned it over and flicked the blade out. He swallowed thickly.

“He needs you, Gansey,” Blue said.

Gansey approached the thorn bush. He went right up to it, so close he touched the smooth back of one of the thorns, and the bush remained still. Following instincts, Gansey swapped the pen knife to his other hand and pushed his empty hand into the vines. Thorns turned away from him and he felt only the smooth brush of hard, empty vines. Gansey stood like that, one arm plunged into the thorn bush, before he took and breath and dived inside.

There was a moment of blackness, where all Gansey could feel on all sides was thorns—then he was released, and his feet hit hard floor.

He looked around him. It was a trailer corridor, the walls close against his sides. The repeating Gingham print on the floor was bubbled in places, sticky against his shoes. He pressed his hands to the plastic wall and felt the slight give of thin walls. When he glanced behind him, he saw that the thorns had been replaced with a hard white wall. There would be no going back, not yet. The only way out was through.

Gansey straightened up and walked through the corridor.

It turned on to a small kitchen. The cupboards took up most of the room in the kitchen, and the gap between the table and the dishwasher was a squeeze even just for one person. A chunky plastic water jug was in the sink, along with several dirty plates.

A boy cried into his hands at the table. His hair was pale blonde and curly like a spaniel’s fur.

Gansey’s heart almost stopped. He rested a hand against the wall for support. “Adam?” He asked.

Adam pulled his hands away from his face. He was so young, his big eyes watery and shining. His hands were pudgy with baby fat, his fingers short. They reminded Gansey of bear paws. Adam had a big bruise over one eye, swollen and dark.

“Adam, it’s me,” Gansey said, approaching the table, “Do you know me? I’m Gansey.”

“Gans,” Adam said. He was missing a tooth. He pawed at his wet eyes, but he just kept crying.

“I’m sorry, Adam,” Gansey sat opposite him, “Can you understand me? I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. You didn’t deserve this.”

“No,” Adam scrubbed his face, “M’bad.”

“You’re not bad,” Gansey insisted, “You’re not bad at all!”

“Bad!” Adam wrapped his arms around his face. “Bad, bad, bad…”

“Hey,” Gansey made his voice soft, “Hey, hey… Adam… Adam, will you listen to me?”

Adam unfurled, just a little. Enough to show his wet cheeks, his big shining eyes.

“Give me your hands,” Gansey said, stretching his arms across the narrow table.

Adam took a moment to decide, before he stretched his pudgy hands out and put them in Gansey’s. His hands weren’t even half his friend’s size, and Gansey could wrap his fingers all the way around Adam’s wrists.

There was a heaviness in Gansey’s chest, a heaviness that made it difficult to speak. He wanted to cry, but he held it back, “Adam. I love you, Adam.”

Adam frowned up at him, chin jutted out. He didn’t look like he believed him.

“You’re a brother to me, Adam,” Gansey squeezed Adam’s little paws, “I love you. I will always love you. Do you know that? It doesn’t matter that we didn’t grow up together. It doesn’t matter that I only met you a year or two ago. We’re family. I will love you forever.”

Adam rubbed his face. The tears had stopped, “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Gansey said, “and I will.”

Adam hung his head. His hair was a little darker now, a little straighter, and when he spoke, his voice was stronger and older, “I don’t know, Gansey. I really fucked up this time. If you’d been there… if you’d seen… There’s something in me—I don’t know what it is. But it’s evil.”

“No, Adam,” Gansey said, and tightened his grip on his friend’s hands, “You did what you had to do. I believe that.”

Adam turned his face away, “I didn’t have to. He might have let me live.”

“If he didn’t,” Gansey said, “If you’d died… it would have killed me. It would have killed Ronan, Blue and Kavinsky. You were right to protect yourself. You didn’t mean to kill him. You didn’t want to. But you had to, in the end.”

Adam glanced up at him. His eyes were dry now, and empty. He looked tired. Fatigue shackled around his neck, and he was as old as Gansey knew him. The sleepless nights had left lines under his eyes, deep black impression.

“I didn’t want to,” Adam said.

“I know,” Gansey said.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Adam drew Gansey’s hands, locked in his own, up to his temple. He rested his head against them, “It still hurts. Every night, every day. I’ve made him immortal and I’ve proved him right.”

“I’m sorry, Adam,” Gansey said, “You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve any of this.”

Adam said nothing. He pressed Gansey’s knuckles to his eyes, like he was praying. He bowed his head and he closed his eyes. He was very still.

Gansey watched him; heart heavy. The silence spread around the kitchen like a shroud. The leaking tap tapped and tapped the sink. Adam was quiet. Gansey wanted to bow his head and cry, but didn’t.

“Are you coming back, Adam?” Gansey said, “We all miss you.”

Adam lowered Gansey’s hands. He blinked away tears. “I’m so fucking tired,” he croaked.

“I know,” Gansey said.

Adam rose from his chair. He was wearing a band shirt that Gansey didn’t recognise—Kavinsky’s, maybe—and grey sweatpants. He kept one hand in Gansey’s and padded through the kitchen to the corridor. His feet where bare.

When Adam pressed a hand to the hard white wall, the surroundings winked out of existence. Fields surrounded them, and the pristine lake. Cold hit Gansey all at once and he nearly flinched. The soft mud sunk into his Chinos, and the wet noise of the lake hit his ears.

“Adam!” Blue yelped.

“Adam,” Kavinsky stepped towards him.

Adam released Gansey’s hand and threw his arms around Kavinsky. The impact was so sudden, it nearly toppled them over. Kavinsky held him tightly, face pressed to Adam’s shoulder. Adam kissed his ear, the only part of him he could reach.

“Sorry,” Adam murmured.

“You’re always fucking apologising,” Kavinsky purred, although this time it didn’t sound like he minded. There were tears in his eyes, gleaming brightly.

“Are you really alright?” Ronan asked.

“Yeah,” Adam said. He separated from Kavinsky but stayed close. Kavinsky had an arm around Adam’s middle. Adam had a shy smile, “Or, I think I will be. Eventually.”

Gansey patted Kavinsky on the shoulder, “Come on. Let’s all go home. We can talk it out tomorrow.”

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_end_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Thank you for sticking with me through mercury dime :) 
> 
> Don't be too sad that it's over ... there are going to be several sequels/extra works attached to this one (3-4 probably and one of them is pretty long ), which you can subscribed to the series this fic is in to get updates for. If that doesn't suit, then thank you for sticking with me thus far and i hope you enjoyed it ʕ◉ᴥ◉ʔ i love you ! 
> 
> actually I might post the deleted chapter in a few hours or tomorrow morning.. i removed it because it broke up the flow too much but i think you guys may still like it ʕ ·ᴥʔ ❤︎ ʕᴥ· ʔ


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